Floater

The first thing isn’t darkness.

It’s worse than that.

Something there—but not steady.

A stain that won’t stay put, like it knows you’re watching.

It drifts.

You try to look past it.

It follows

A small shadow cutting across everything, like a comma dropped in the wrong place.

In the right eye—something’s off.

Movement where there shouldn’t be.

Light breaking wrong.

When you close your eyes, it doesn’t go away.

It gets louder.

Rust-red shapes.

Thick, uneven.

Like something inside is… not right.

You open them again.

The room comes back, but thinner.

Edges soft, like they’re already starting to leave.

And then fear—no build, no warning.

Just there.

It sits heavy.

Right on your chest.

Starts asking questions you don’t want.

What if this doesn’t clear.

What if this is how it starts.

What if one day you open your eye-sand nothing answers back.

You stop sleeping.

Morning shows up too early, like you’ve done something wrong.

Your mind keeps count of things you never asked it to track: burden, dependent.

Too much.

You start imagining yourself differently—heavier.

Something people have to carry.

Your father’s voice slips in there.

Not really him, but close enough.

That instinct to expect the worst.

To prepare for it.

You learned that early.

How to brace.

How to find exits before you need them.

Now it won’t turn off.

“I’m a hypocrite,” you say, quietly, to no one.

Because you’ve always talked about strength.

About pushing through.

And now your hands shake.

As if fear means failure.

As if the body breaking rhythm's something you’re supposed to control.

Art used to steady you.

Boxing used to burn it out.

Now even that feels uncertain.

How do you paint when nothing holds still.

How do you read when words slip.

How do you trust your eyes when they’re the problem.

The doctor says it’s improving.

But the right eye lags behind.

Taking its time.

Like it’s deciding something.

Then another word shows up.

Surgery.

Vitrectomy.

You nod as you understand it.

Like it’s just another step.

But you hear the rest anyway—worse before better.

cataracts, eventually.

swelling that might come later.

You sit there, listening.

Doing the version of yourself that holds it together.

But later—

the thought sharpens.

If I go blind—

You don’t finish it.

You don’t need to.

It’s already there.

It’s not death you’re afraid of.

It's everything after.

Living without light.

Without words landing where they should.

Without that thin, invisible thing that lets you say this is still me.

Still—

there’s an appointment on the calendar.

A date.A time.Something ahead of you.

Follow up next step.

Someone watching.

Someone measuring it.

Not letting it just… happen.

For now—

you breathe.

You say what you can see.

Even if it’s imperfect.

You make it through the hour.

The floater drifts.

And you’re still here.

Afraid—yeah.

But here.