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Sofa

"Look up!" That is what my doctor has told me. I don't see it as advice. First of all, I am anatomically restricted to look up when I am unoccupied. It is as dull as hell. Living room ceilings are the most unimaginative spaces; they are applied without thought and exist without touch. Even a stain would be welcome, something for me to visually grasp and arrange with my woven eyes. Enjoying possible forms, even mould! When I am occupied, my form shifts. It usually gets crumpled and blocked by the density of a head. I can sometimes see beyond it, a corner or segment of something else makes its way through. If I get past the breathing, the jaw munching, and intervals of deep rumbling snores, I can make out vivid, moving colours. They are often brash and too much on my senses. I still look. I can't say that I enjoy these peeks, but I do like the difference. When I slumped to the doctor's office, shuffling down the road, fully feeling the onlookers' gaze, prepared with my complaints—once shared, I knew that the doctor's advice to "look up" wasn't idiotic because of my anatomy. It was the monotony of what I see when I look up that was no use to me. On my shuffle home, I realised it is not a peek over shards of hair that relieves me; it is the shift just before I am about to see, that lifts me. It is the event of difference that cures me.It is within the space of not seeing anything, not upwards, not across, but in between, that I will strive for, sit within, and be.