The Color of the Eyes

I only have a few months left to see, and I won't finish the book, and I start crying to them that just as I began writing my great book, my masterpiece and magnum opus, I need two more years, and it's happening now and it's not fair. But deep inside, I feel that it is actually fair and I deserve it - I'm eating my heart out over all the time I wasted (and even more over the one who didn't want me)

The Color of S's Eyes (Source)

I dreamed that I developed a rare eye problem discovered by some doctor, and that I need to find a professor willing to treat it with an experimental method involving a small black pupil, which I could also help him with - and it would be worthwhile for him with the research. But I can't find anyone, wandering through faculties, they tell me it's very interesting, and they'll think about it, and that it's intriguing and innovative and experimental, but there are very few patients with this condition in the world, and even those aren't discovered, so I don't really believe they're interested. Or that they'll think about it. Then I go for a check-up, with the pupil doctor who hasn't done anything in the meantime, and they discover that the problem is already irreversible and all the yolk of the eye [Translator's note: referring to the iris] which is the middle of the eye has completely mixed, and only the white around it remains, and I'm about to go blind and already see everything blurry (how didn't I notice but look, it's true!). And I only have a few months left to see and I won't finish the book, and I start crying to them that just as I began writing my great book, my masterpiece and magnum opus, and I need two more years to see, and it's happening now and it's not fair. But deep inside, I feel that it is actually fair and I deserve it - I'm eating my heart out over all the time I wasted (and even more over the one who didn't want me) instead of starting the one thing that was important.

But they're not impressed by the lost book and don't care, and I realize that I won't be able to see even myself in the mirror anymore, I'll only be able to touch, and that I won't even be able to see the girl I'll marry. So in that respect, there's a preference for girls I've already seen, whom I can at least imagine, fantasize about, dream of. And instead of writing, I'm wasting time looking at some beautiful leaf in the sun, and I say how I'm wasting the time I have left to see, instead of writing, and I start to see some girl on the street who seems interested in me, and maybe I'll be with her, and waste time - because maybe (actually probably. Actually certainly) I won't be with her at all - looking at her. And in the end, she sits on a bench and talks to someone, and I try to get her attention, looking at her so she'll look at me, lying very close underneath her on the floor under the bench so she'll notice, and thinking maybe it doesn't make a good impression that I'm like this on the floor of the bench if she sees me, but telling myself that this way she'll know I'm that kind of weird, and that's what there is. No point in hiding. They find out in the end anyway.

And I look at her really closely from below and try to catch her eye with a really penetrating gaze so she'll see me, from between the planks under the bench, and I see that she looks like her, really looks like her, exactly as I like, or as I've gotten used to liking, and feel a bit lucky that I met someone like that, with eyes like that, but she ignores me. And it's really strange that she doesn't see that I'm right underneath her (but maybe it's also lucky that she doesn't see me in such a state lying down and won't want me), and she's busy talking to another guy right above me, and miraculously doesn't see me, even though I'm right there, all of me focused and all my ability deep in her light green eyes - and I understand that they are her eyes. That she is her.