Condemiang's Eyes

One day, around the time when the breathless heat of midsummer had already begun to dull, I wanted to see my face reflected not in a mirror, but in some other tool of projection.
I had long since given up the futility of drawing something on scraps of paper or pieces of cloth. For just behind the torn canvas, there had always been a subject so vividly alive that I didn’t need to draw it at all.
And I had eyes—two beautiful eyes—capable of being filled with that freshness and rejoicing in it. Because I had come to know that truth.
14 December 2006
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