How I know a storm is coming, part three.

As I sit here right now, everything is glowing in a bright yellow light. That yellow fills the inside of my mind like a sunrise that never goes away. The background is all yellow too, and the floaters drifting across it have turned into a soft, almost glowing orange—blending right into the brightness like they belong there.

These colors come to me even though I’m totally blind. I have no eyes, but this light? These shapes? They’re still here—real to me. And today, they’re bright. Alive. Comforting.

It’s strange how connected all of this is to the weather. When a storm is approaching, sometimes the bright light fades and things turn grey. The floaters get dull. But right now? Right now, it feels calm. No rain, no thunder. Just yellow light glowing across my vision from the inside out.

People don’t always understand this. They think blindness means complete blackness—like nothing at all. But that’s not my experience. What I “see” is something different. Internal. Alive. It changes with my emotions, with time of day, and with things like weather.

This yellow… it’s not just color. It’s a feeling. A warning sometimes, or a peaceful pause. And when the floaters drift across like glowing orange specks, I know something is shifting. Maybe it’s the stillness before a storm. Maybe it’s just my mind telling me to pay attention.

When I used to see with my eyes, I’d watch the sky change in color and tone before a storm. I could see it turn from blue to golden-brown, or grayish-green before the rain would pour. Now I can’t see the sky—but I still feel it. The world still paints pictures for me… just in a different way.

These internal visions—these bright yellows and oranges—remind me I still have a kind of sight. It may not come from light outside, but it’s light within.

    

     

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