Still seeing in the dark.

Fireworks have always meant something special to me—not just because of the holiday celebrations or the excitement in the air, but because they actually include me. Even though I’m totally blind now, I still enjoy fireworks. I can hear them. I can feel them. And I can still picture the colors in my mind. The pops, the crackles, the deep booms that rumble through your chest—those are things I can experience fully. I remember the colors from when I still had some sight: the glowing reds, oranges, peach tones, bright yellows, sharp whites, cool blues, and even a few greens. When I hear a firework explode, I match that sound with the color I remember. It's like the sky is painting just for me—but through sound instead of sight. But laser shows and silent light shows? They don’t include me at all. I can’t hear them, I can’t feel them, and if no one tells me what’s happening, there’s nothing there for me. I just sit in silence, while everyone else is reacting to something I can’t acc...

Something strange and powerful is happening to me right now. As I write this, I’m overwhelmed—not just emotionally, but visually. And yes, I mean visually , even though I’m totally blind and have no eyes. The yellow is back. Not just back—it’s taken over. Earlier, I took a short nap, and during that time, everything shifted back to what’s “normal” for me: a soft, cloudy gray background with floating yellow shapes. That’s my usual inner visual world, the one that’s with me even though I no longer see in the way others do. But when I woke up, the yellow came back stronger than ever before. It didn’t just return—it flooded everything. The floaters, the light, the space around me in my mind’s eye… all of it was filled with bright, almost blinding yellow. It’s so strong right now that I can’t “see” the usual dark reddish-brown that lets me know my eyes are closed. I can’t see the dark brown of my own hands when I raise them in front of my face. And yet—I know they’re there. I can feel ...

Lately, I’ve been seeing a lot of bright yellow inside my mind. Not with my eyes—I don’t have eyes anymore—but with something deeper. This color glows from within, covering everything with light. And it got me thinking: what does yellow really mean in the world? I always wondered that. What does yellow stand for , really? It’s the color of the sun —the first light that greets us in the morning. It’s tied to warmth, happiness, and hope . That makes sense, because when yellow fills my inner vision, I don’t feel scared. I feel calm. I feel aware. It’s like something peaceful is trying to say, “I’m here. You’re not alone.” People say yellow sparks creativity and focus , and that it’s linked with clarity . That speaks to me too, because sometimes when yellow shows up inside me, I feel like something is about to come together—like I’m about to understand or create something new. But yellow isn’t always soft. It’s also used in warning signs , like “Caution!” or “Slow down!” Maybe because...

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 ...

I’ve already shared how I can smell a storm before it hits, and how the wind, the stillness, and the distant rumble of thunder let me know what’s coming. But there's more to this story—more about what I used to see, and what I still remember. I don’t feel storms in my body like some people do—no pressure, no pain. For me, it’s all about listening and smelling . The wind has a sound to it that changes when a storm is near. The air smells different too—fresh, thick, electric, like the sky is waking up. But back when I had sight, there was something else I noticed that most people didn’t: lightning wasn’t always just white to me. Sometimes, when I looked out at the sky during a strong storm, I could see the lightning flash pink , or reddish-pink , or even bright yellow . And on certain days—when it was still daytime, and the bright clouds had shifted just enough to darken the sky—I could even catch a flash of purple . Beautiful! No one else ever said they saw it that way. People...

Lately, I’ve noticed a shift in the colors I see inside. The floaters that usually drift so peacefully in soft yellow, peach, and golden light have dulled. The background feels darker than usual—more like a heavy gray than the usual calm. I think that sometimes, the way I feel emotionally starts to show up in what I see internally. That happened recently after a phone call that didn’t go the way I expected. It wasn’t dramatic, and no one said anything loud or cruel. But it was the kind of moment that quietly hurts—the kind where you realize you might not be seen or held in the same way you thought you were. Someone I care about deeply acted differently than I’m used to. It felt like I was suddenly on the outside of something I had always been part of. A small shift in tone, a comment that felt off, a goodbye that never came. Those little things added up, and in that moment, I felt invisible—like I had slipped into a space where I wasn’t needed, or maybe no longer welcome. I’m not he...

Here’s another one of those sky memories that has never left me, even all these years after I went blind. It was a bright sunny day—so bright you’d never expect a thunderstorm to sneak up on it. But I remember standing there, looking up as the sky started to shift. First, the clouds began gathering together, but not in a scary way—more like they were building up slowly, piece by piece. On the left side , and across the middle of the sky , the clouds were still mostly bright. I could see cracks of blue sky peeking through , like tiny windows reminding me that the sun was still up there somewhere. But it was the right side of the sky that changed everything. Suddenly, the color turned to this yellowish dark brown —a golden, murky shade that reminded me of pancakes cooking on a griddle , just a little darker than golden brown. It didn’t look like any sky I’d ever seen before. It looked crazy . It looked alive. It was one of those moments where the world feels like it’s trying to show...