Behind Closed Eyes

The red bloom behind the lids, not blood, not quite, but a memory of sunset pressed too hard. Then the shapes begin, amorphous wanderers, sometimes sharp edges emerge, a fleeting geometry untethered from the world. Faces flicker, unbidden guests from yesterday, a smile, a frown, eyes that hold no judgment now. Landscapes shift like dreams, a forest of purple trees, a river of liquid light, places the waking mind could never quite conceive. And the quiet hum, a vibration felt more than heard, the body’s deep thrumming, a constant undercurrent to the silent, inner show. Is this seeing? Or a theater of the mind, projecting its own reel onto the blank screen of darkness? Perhaps the truest visions arrive when the outer world recedes, and the inner eye, unburdened by light, finally begins to truly look. ©bfa042525