I Am Losing My Sight

For several months now, I have begun to experience a strange sensation. Not painful, not threatening. Rather, it is wonderful, intimate, secret. It feels as if my eyes are relinquishing their throne to a deeper kind of vision. Yes, I am losing my sight—but I am starting to see.

I’m not exaggerating. It’s neither an illness nor a symptom. It is revelation. The beginning of a new way of perceiving. One in which the senses are subordinated to the spirit. And in that new order, writing becomes not a vocation, but an urgency.

I always longed to live that phenomenon Borges or José Emilio Pacheco spoke of: that connection with a higher force—divine, inexplicable—that cannot be summoned or commanded, only awaited with humility. Pacheco used to say he wasn’t the one who wrote. That if he were, he’d never have written bad poems. That it was that force—the universal poetry, the creative spirit, God perhaps—that used him as an instrument. And ever since I began to write, I’ve yearned with hunger for that to happen to me.

I dreamed that, one random morning, upon opening my eyes, everything would become writing. That every tree would speak to me, that each cloud would dictate its secrets, that the symphony of birds would compel me to pick up the pen. That the whole world would turn into ink. That I might disappear as an individual and reappear as a text. That my ego would dissolve and what remained would be a work that honored literature, that honored the tree that gave its life to offer me this white surface where thoughts attempt to become eternal.

And today, that seems to be happening.

I’m no longer seeing the world as it once revealed itself to me. I no longer perceive it as a set of objects, but as a collection of symbols. A river is no longer merely a body of water: it is a text in motion. Its surface calm interrupted by hidden rocks becomes a metaphor for life. The mountains do not rise—they cry out. They demand to be written. The clouds don’t float—their shapes become ideas. American robins do not sing—their songs are verses dictated without permission.

Even the wind rushing through the trees now has its own voice. And the falling leaves are no longer part of autumn—they are words.

I am experiencing what Emerson described in Nature, when he wrote:

“Standing on the bare ground—my head bathed by the blithe air and uplifted into infinite space—all mean egotism vanishes. I become a transparent eyeball; I am nothing; I see all.”

That image—the transparent eyeball, the self that disappears so that all may be seen—is no distant metaphor. Today, it is a literal experience. My individuality dissolves to give way to something vaster, quieter, more real. And in that state, words are not sought—they arrive. They are not built—they are revealed.

I cannot stop. I must not.

I asked for the divine connection, and now I have it. It would be unworthy to reject it. Even setbacks, delays, the small obstacles of the day, are now transformed into thoughts that brush the elegant beauty of humble simplicity. The connection needs a discharge route. And for me, that route is literature.

I cannot remain still. I was not called only to receive. I was called to share. To channel. To scatter good into the lives of as many people as possible. I am beginning to understand what “inspiration” truly means: it is not an emotion—it is a responsibility.

What once were merely thoughts are now mandates. What once were feelings are now instructions. This force does not settle for moving me: it demands that I act. That I write. That I publish. That I share.

And I know—with the same certainty with which one knows they are alive—that these words will soon reach the right people. That they will touch minds and hearts, and that some of those hearts will want to do the same thing I tried to do for them: use the word to illuminate. That will be my greatest victory.

Because I already possess the hardest part: a loving heart, an elevated awareness. I only need one final step: to attain the freedom of command that only words can grant me. And when that moment comes, I will go into the forest. Alone, in silence. I will lie down upon the earth, close my eyes, and give thanks to life.

Thanks for allowing me to see the world beyond my eyes.
Thanks for making me a free man.