In the visual field of the eye, there is an area called the blind spot.
The image that forms is interrupted in the centre of the eye ball by the entrance of the optic nerve.
A place where, in effect, the eye cannot see itself.
The blind spot is that which you do not see and you do not know that you do not see.
It simply does not exist as nothing in the field of vision allows the conclusion that it is seen by an eye.
In reality, you do not see the eye.
How can one hide from that which never sets?
Something once happened to me that would be considered as an experience, if only words were not missing to describe it as true.
It is through this lack of words that truth is attach to the real.
Once, upon awakening alone, after a night that felt longer than others, I had the sensation of remaining in a dream where the contents escape you.
Just as it might happen to anyone, I felt a presence in my home.
I first assumed it was my mind.
But again in the reflection of the window, I thought I glimpsed an unfamiliar silhouette.
I conceived this as a swerve in my consciousness, an uncanny experience of seeing an image in my reflection that I simply did not recognise as myself.
When I looked in the mirror, I faced an image that did not resemble my own, but someone I was seeing for the first time.
I felt the weight of this dissonance between the image that was brought to me through my eyes and what seemed real until now.
Whose image was this staring back at me?
If this person that I was now seeing here, at this moment, was the same as whom I had glimpsed in the apartment and had taken to be someone else, was that not actually myself all along?
Or was I really this person that I had never seen before, and I had glimpsed the image of myself, the one that is still a part of my memory wandering in the apartment, that I would not have recognised and I now see that I am not anymore.
An event occurs or does not occur, there is no middle course.
Was I the other who was pointing me out to myself?
We do not belong to the world, rather our gaze draws a limit to it.
The nature of each day is one.
Everything is accidental.
The inverted image that forms at the back of the eye separates us from the real, we perceive it with a delay that makes it already part of the past.
Time is merely the condition of our experience. None part of it is at the same time a priori. Everything we see could be something else.
Everything we can describe could be something else.
There is an order of things, a posteriori.
As far back as I can go in my early memories, I cannot grasp when the first moments of remembering surfaced, when others first words that build my thoughts appeared to my mind as mine.
I am my world.
The border of my language is the border of my world.
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