ASTIGMATISM

 In this world, perhaps the most burdensome curse is astigmatism.

Because of it, you struggle to see words clearly—shadowed, tilted, even blurred.

Because of it, nights on the road are a torment, lights scattering into radiant bursts that sting your eyes.

And, of course, as though it were a cruel joke, astigmatism often comes hand-in-hand with myopias.

The strain of blurry letters tires you.

The strain of doubled objects exhausts you.

The strain of jagged lines pierces your eyes.

But do you know what’s truly the worst?

Not being able to recognize faces.

I am a creature who draws energy from the crowd—

the lively hum of shopping malls, bustling supermarkets, cozy restaurants, and cafes.

I drown if locked in my room.

Yet amidst the sea of people, almost everyone appears uniform to my eyes.

And I can never quite stop the restless beating of my heart.

My gaze falters, then sweeps from head to left arm.

Relief washes over me when I find no tattoo there.

But disappointment follows, like an unwelcome guest.

What my mind craves and what my body desires seem to speak in different tongues.

It took me time to notice.

I begin to wonder:

What would happen if, once more,

in the vast unfamiliar crowd,

our eyes met?

What would I do?

How long would I freeze?

And what is it that I truly want?

I scroll through dating apps daily, hoping to stumble upon you.

Do you, like so many other men out there, play the game of swipes and matches?

Sometimes, I feel sadness when I cannot find you—

because how could your feelings turn so swiftly,

while I tirelessly search for an empty space in my heart untouched by a name or memory?

Yet at times, I feel relief when I don’t find you—

perhaps it means you have no interest in the countless women on those apps,

or perhaps your heart has not yet stirred toward seeking connection.

And so I remain conflicted.

Am I glad, or am I grieved?

It seems my astigmatism has afflicted not just my eyes,

but my reason as well.

I wish to trust my instincts, for I do not want to be startled by fate.

Here, everyone looks the same.

And I keep glancing at left arms, searching,

hoping to find,

but also not to find.

Astigmatism—

you carry it too.

But alas, I bear no mark.

Even if I did,

I doubt you would trace its edges,

and be shaken as I am.