Blurry Vision Quotes

The moon looked like melted mozzarella to my bleary and blurry vision. Was I tired, intoxicated, or in love? Or was I sober, asleep, and alone?


This was middle school, the age of miracles, the time when kids shot up three inches over the summer, when breasts bloomed from nothing, when voices dipped and dove. Our first flaws were emerging, but they were being corrected. Blurry vision could be fixed invisibly with the magic of the contact lens. Crooked teeth were pulled straight with braces. Spotty skin could be chemically cleared. Some girls were turning beautiful. A few boys were growing tall.

Anyway, my ribs hurt like hell, my vision is still blurry from acceleration sickness, I’m really hungry, it’ll be another 211 days before I’m back on Earth, and, apparently, I smell like a skunk took a shit on some sweat socks. This is the happiest day of my life.

So many people live their lives not knowing the real and exact reasons why they live. They follow anything for something and they do something for anything. When you live life with a blurry vision, you live a blurry life. Vision is life, and a life without vision is a dead life

A high-speed collision gave a new sense of sight To me And now my vision can render the scene A blurry image of wreckage and roadside debris Happiness returned to me Through a grave emergency

I was told The average girl begins to plan her wedding at the age of 7 She picks the colors and the cake first By the age of 10 She knows time, And location By 17 She’s already chosen a gown 2 bridesmaids And a maid of honor By 23 She’s waiting for a man Who wont break out in hives when he hears the word “commitment” Someone who doesn’t smell like a Band-Aid drenched in lonely Someone who isn’t a temporary solution to the empty side of the bed Someone Who’ll hold her hand like it’s the only one they’ve ever seen To be honest I don’t know what kind of tux I’ll be wearing I have no clue what want my wedding will look like But I imagine The women who pins my last to hers Will butterfly down the aisle Like a 5 foot promise I imagine Her smile Will be so large that you’ll see it on google maps And know exactly where our wedding is being held The woman that I plan to marry Will have champagne in her walk And I will get drunk on her footsteps When the pastor asks If I take this woman to be my wife I will say yes before he finishes the sentence I’ll apologize later for being impolite But I will also explain him That our first kiss happened 6 years ago And I’ve been practicing my “Yes” For past 2, 165 days When people ask me about my wedding I never really know what to say But when they ask me about my future wife I always tell them Her eyes are the only Christmas lights that deserve to be seen all year long I say She thinks too much Misses her father Loves to laugh And she’s terrible at lying Because her face never figured out how to do it correctl I tell them If my alarm clock sounded like her voice My snooze button would collect dust I tell them If she came in a bottle I would drink her until my vision is blurry and my friends take away my keys If she was a book I would memorize her table of contents I would read her cover-to-cover Hoping to find typos Just so we can both have a few things to work on Because aren’t we all unfinished? Don’t we all need a little editing? Aren’t we all waiting to be proofread by someone? Aren’t we all praying they will tell us that we make sense She don’t always make sense But her imperfections are the things I love about her the most I don’t know when I will be married I don’t know where I will be married But I do know this Whenever I’m asked about my future wife I always say …She’s a lot like you

He draws closer, until I feel his lips against my ear. My entire body trembles. “Do you have any idea?” he says in a soft, broken, hoarse whisper. “Do you know how . . . how badly I wish . . .” He pulls away long enough to look me desperately in the eyes. “If you don’t love me, just say it—you have to help me. It’d probably be for the best. It’d make it easier to stay away from you, wouldn’t it? I can let go.” He says it like he’s trying to convince himself. “I can let go, if you don’t love me.” He says this as if he thinks I’m the stronger one. But I’m not. I can’t keep this up any better than he can. “No,” I say through gritted teeth and blurry vision. “I can’t help you. Because I do love you.” There it is, out in the open. “I’m in love with you,” I repeat.

To the short-sighted, through the fog, God must be a monster.

We’re all blurry-eyed wanderers of time, and the unfortunance of it all is that we’d probably all go on to do great things if only we searched for what corrected and focused our vision instead of relying on our past – life’s grand kaleidoscope – to help us find our way forward.

Have one core vision for your life and all the blurry spots will go away.

Beg me, Is.” Reggie circled the wrinkled entrance, teasing even though his limbs felt heavy and his vision was getting all kinds of blurry. “Ask for it and I might throw you some scraps like what you threw me when I had to listen to your eyes and your touch, because your lips could never speak the fucking truth.

Once the rain starts falling it’s hard to tell it to stop. I guess it stops in its own time. My tears, like the rain, kept falling as I made my way home through blurry vision. In truth it’s difficult to describe a broken heart. All I know is that unimaginable pain centers in your chest and radiates out, this throbbing, sharp ache that causes almost incapacitation. But there’s more than the ache. Denial lodges itself in your throat, and that lump is its own kind of pain. The affliction of heartbreak can also be found in a knot in your stomach. The knot contracts and expands, contracts and expands, until you’re pretty sure you’re not going to be able to hold down the vomit.

Jesse." My head springs up with a deep breath of panic. Alex's face appears in my blurry vision. I guess I managed to fall asleep in this old chair after all. Now I feel worse than when I sat down. "Come." She takes my hand and tugs me until I get out of the chair, leading me to the bed. It's still dark out, but the fire casts enough glow. "Wait, let me get the-" "No, this is perfect. Really." She's still whispering. the girl who drives a BMW Z8, and she wears probably two years' worth my salary on her finger, curls up on an unmade bed with an old wool blanket and says it's perfect.

When the vision of your dreams gets blurry remember to readjust your lens.

It's the blurr that makes you strive for clear vision.

Xie Lian felt the rims of his eyes grow hot, and his vision went blurry. “I’m sorry,” he replied. “Forget me.” The nameless ghost’s flickering flames flared brighter. “I won’t forget. Your Highness, I am forever your most devoted believer.” Xie Lian forced down a sob. “…I’ve already lost all my believers. Believing in me won’t do you any good; it might even bring disaster. Did you know? Even my friend has left me.” The nameless ghost declared as if swearing an oath, “I won’t.” “You will,” Xie Lian said. The ghost was insistent. “Believe me, Your Highness.” “I don’t,” Xie Lian said. He no longer believed in anyone, especially himself.

A mother must be vigilant. She must be able and willing to wake up ten times during the night to feed her baby. After her intermittent vigil, she must see everything clearly the next morning so that she can notice any changes in her baby. A mother is not permitted to have blurry vision. She must notice if her baby’s wail is too loud or too low. She must know if the child’s temperature has risen or fallen. A mother must not miss any signs.

because of those last moments with Billy, the very idea of my hands wrapped in someone else’s has plagued me, making my heart stop, my stomach drop, my vision blurry, my muscles spasm, and sweat pour down my back all at once. Until now.

I flip to the dedication page and my heart stops. To my muse: I wrote all my books for you, even before I met you. But this one even more so than the rest. Because this is the book in which I ask you to love me forever. To be mine. To say yes. When I drag my eyes up from the page, vision blurry, he’s kneeling in front of me.

He released my body, and I slumped down the wall, my butt colliding with the hardwood floor as I looked up at him with blurry vision. "What just happened?" Zane Smirked then leaned down, offering me his massive hand. "Demonstration. You want him to kiss you like that. You're welcome. Also, next time a guy tries to kiss you who isn't Lincoln, you slap him.

When you’re in the eye of the tornado, the world looks blurry—especially when you’re working hard to avoid clear vision.” Mona

the Kármán line of craziness, the blurry border that separates vision from hallucination.

In my book, there is an unfinished poem- and I never had a chance to put a full stop because your faded image still exists in the little world of mine. A poem never ends until the tears of a poet dry out - and sadly I could neither find the eraser to rub off your image nor could I find the pen to put a full stop because of my blurry vision," ~Sahaana [Walking Across the London Bridge]

The best of us are cursed with caring, with a bungling and undying determination to protect whatever looks like beauty, even if our vision is blurry. People keep warning me that Isla's generation will blame us for loosing so much of that precious beauty. But whatever: It's inevitable, and I'm trying to make my peace with it. It's comforting that they'll still imagine better, and it will occur to them to be angry.

This smorgasbord of eyes brings with it a dizzying medley of visual Umwelten. Animals might see crisp detail at a distance, or nothing more than blurry blotches of light and shade. They might see perfectly well in what we’d call darkness, or go instantly blind in what we’d call brightness. They might see in what we’d deem slow motion or time-lapse. They might see in two directions at once, or in every direction at once. Their vision might get more or less sensitive over the span of a single day. Their Umwelt might change as they get older. Jakob’s colleague Nate Morehouse has shown that jumping spiders are born with their lifetime’s supply of light-detecting cells, which get bigger and more sensitive with age. “Things would get brighter and brighter,” Morehouse tells me. For a jumping spider, getting older “is like watching the sun rising.

Everyone was like devils with snakes’ eyes trying to coil me up as they tried to suffocate me. Their actions squeezed me until my vision was blurry, and darkness covered my soul. They worked overtime trying to hypnotize me and bury me with their lies.

Peering at myself in the mirror without my glasses, my face looked sort of blurry and moist. My glasses are the thing I hate most about my face, but there are certain good things about glasses that other people might not understand. I like to take my glasses off and look out into the distance. Everything goes hazy, as in a dream, or like a zoetrope—it's wonderful. I can't see anything that's dirty. Only big things—vivid intense colors and light are all that enters my vision. I also like to take my glasses off and look at people. The faces around me, all of them, seem kind and pretty and smiling.

the blue butterfly fluttered across her range of vision to land on the head of a butter yellow dandelion in Emma’s bouquet. The surprise and pleasure struck the three faces in that triangle under the white roses almost as one. Mac pressed the shutter. She knew, knew, the photograph wouldn’t be blurry and dark or fuzzy and washed out. Her thumb wouldn’t be blocking the lens. She knew exactly what the picture would look like, knew her grandmother had been wrong after all. Maybe happy ever after was bull, but she knew she wanted to take more pictures of moments that were happy. Because then they were ever after.

EVERY WEDNESDAY, I teach an introductory fiction workshop at Harvard University, and on the first day of class I pass out a bullet-pointed list of things the students should try hard to avoid. Don’t start a story with an alarm clock going off. Don’t end a story with the whole shebang having been a suicide note. Don’t use flashy dialogue tags like intoned or queried or, God forbid, ejaculated. Twelve unbearably gifted students are sitting around the table, and they appreciate having such perimeters established. With each variable the list isolates, their imaginations soar higher. They smile and nod. The mood in the room is congenial, almost festive with learning. I feel like a very effective teacher; I can practically hear my course-evaluation scores hitting the roof. Then, when the students reach the last point on the list, the mood shifts. Some of them squint at the words as if their vision has gone blurry; others ask their neighbors for clarification. The neighbor will shake her head, looking pale and dejected, as if the last point confirms that she should have opted for that aseptic-surgery class where you operate on a fetal pig. The last point is: Don’t Write What You Know. The idea panics them for two reasons. First, like all writers, the students have been encouraged, explicitly or implicitly, for as long as they can remember, to write what they know, so the prospect of abandoning that approach now is disorienting. Second, they know an awful lot. In recent workshops, my students have included Iraq War veterans, professional athletes, a minister, a circus clown, a woman with a pet miniature elephant, and gobs of certified geniuses. They are endlessly interesting people, their lives brimming with uniquely compelling experiences, and too often they believe those experiences are what equip them to be writers. Encouraging them not to write what they know sounds as wrongheaded as a football coach telling a quarterback with a bazooka of a right arm to ride the bench. For them, the advice is confusing and heartbreaking, maybe even insulting. For me, it’s the difference between fiction that matters only to those who know the author and fiction that, well, matters.

A second source of blurriness in Trump’s vision is that it offers no incentive for friendship. If every nation is focused entirely on gaining an edge over every other, there can be no trust, no special relationships, no reward for helpfulness, and no penalty for cynicism—because cynicism is all we promise and all we expect.

Our day -- with its confusion and noise, its blurry, dark, and whirling pace - is much like a hurricane. The steadying voice is not found shouting above it all. Stability speaks in the quiet interior, "in the stillness" where prayer begins and the testimony of Christ is kept, that familiar chamber where we detect truth and where we chose to do the right thing. In that place of patient hearing, we find out what the Master would like us to do. There, we can avoid getting tangled in other things. There, we decide to do His short list of tasks. There, we resist adding to our marching orders, avoiding the tendency to dwarf His list with a longer list of our own. If we fail to listen in those depths, if we ignore the interior voice, if we indulge ourselves in self-appointed missions, we will soon complain that we have too many things to do. And then a hundred hours in a day will not be enough. The truth is, we don't need more time for doing things. We need more vision about what few things to do.

There is mystery to how faith takes root and flourishes, how need transforms into belief. Suffice to say, Zhigang and Ruifang came to know the customs and traditions of Protestant Christianity. They learned biblical stories and verses. They learned the hymns by heart. But the thing that Ruifang found most comforting about this religion was prayer. She prayed, at first imitating others during group prayers, and then eventually on her own, alone in the basement apartment. It was during the afternoons, her vision blurry and fingers stiff and fatigued from hooking wigs, that she sat down at the kitchen table and clasped her hands. It would become an important ritual, the one routine that granted her a sense of control. She practically invented her own life in America by praying, she liked to say.

The new angle hits a deep spot, and I fall forward, barely able to contain myself. My lips land on his, cutting him off. I start to kiss him until I've got no more air in my lungs. I direct my hand down low to that spot that's been on fire ever since I straddled Callum. Right now it's begging, pleading for attention. I move my hand softly at first, swirling a slow rhythm until the heat morphs into pressure. Callum's eyes fall to where my hand is. "Yes. Just like that," he growls. Faster and faster I swirl until every blink gives way to blurry vision. Then it comes. Through all the convulsing, all the whimpering, all the panting, one thing is clear: this climax is perfection, and the reason why is because it's with Callum. He holds me up as I thrash against him, refusing to let himself break until I've gotten mine. When I come down, his body tenses, his jaw bulges, and his eyes go hazy. But somehow he's still got me. His muscled arms shroud me like a warm blanket. Under them, I'm safe. Under him, everything is perfect.

As the sunset was coming closer, Triton started fearing that they won’t be able to make it on time, afraid that he When they were right at the doors of the Snow Queen’s castle, a snowflake storm began.   A wall made of little white specks started swirling and twisting around Gerda, until she felt she couldn’t go on, because her vision was getting blurry, and her head and hands were so cold.   Gerda had to find a way to get past the snowflakes, so she started thinking about the one thing that had kept her going this whole time.   She tried to ignore the coldness and snowflakes coming her way, and started thinking about Kai, “Kai… Kai… I have to find Kai! I have to find my friend!”   Gerda didn’t even notice that at that point she was already in the castle made of ice.

Vargus: Be me. Eat a bag of dicks for breakfast. Go home for lunch and eat another bag of dicks. Finish work and start preparing my bag of dicks for dinner while I warm up ‘The Saga Continues’. No Aetherius. Me sad. Chew dicks pensively. Some guy called Scorpius fighting instead. Level 28. Total noobcake. ROFL, wut a tryhard. Noobcake kicks demi-god in my three meals a day and cusses him out in livestream, with broken arms and legs. Dicks spilling from my gobsmacked open mouth (soooooo many dicks). I inhale too hard and my dinner gets lodged in my throat. Stars in my vision, blacking out. Try to call my mom for help, but multiple phalli are blocking my respiratory organs. Tumble out of my chair sideways and hit the ground, hands around my throat to dislodge all the penises I’ve been chowing down on. There’s no hope, there are too many. Everything goes dark. Wake up, my vision is blurry and my throat is blissfully unburdened by inadvertent deep throating. I’m being transported somewhere. Am I on my way to heaven? How will I explain my eating habits to Saint Peter? Big blurry white words are floating into perspective in the center of my vision. I try to focus on them, my brain still struggling to replenish oxygen. The words clear, and it is obvious that my diet has not gone unnoticed. I am in hell. ‘The Elder Scrolls V’. Oh no, oh god no, anything but that! ‘SKYRIM’. Please, St. Peter, I can change, please don’t forsake me, PLEA- “Hey you, you’re finally awake”. Thanks Todd. 10/10, would eat dicks and watch Daemien kick a demi-god in the schlong again.

I wanted to write you a love poem But my heart feels out of tune So I coax my breath into the darkness of my rib cage And invite it to fan open Maybe I would say something like, "One day, I would like to fall in love with you," And here I pause while the tears that have been threatening to rain down all day swell high in my chest, blurring my vision "One day, I would like to fall in love with you," I will start writing again, & continue, "wherever you are, whoever you are, but in this moment, I will fall in love with me." My brow furls ever so slightly, because that is not what I expected to say I pause again & allow the container to soften, for the edges to get blurry And the tears, one by one spill over And all the holding of the day crumples away And I am me again & you are you again, too

The cost for my survival must have been hundreds of millions of dollars. All to save one dorky botanist. Why bother? Well, okay. I know the answer to that. Part of it might be what I represent: progress, science, and the interplanetary future we've dreamed of for centuries. But really, they did it because every human being has a basic instinct to help each other out. It might not seem that way sometimes, but it's true. If a hiker gets lost in the mountains, people will coordinate a search. If a train crashes, people will line up to give blood. If an earthquake levels a city, people all over the world will send emergency supplies. This is so fundamentally human that it's found in every culture without exception. Yes, there are assholes who just don't care, but they're massively outnumbered by the people who do. And because of that, I had billions of people on my side. Pretty cool, eh? Anyway, my ribs hurt like hell, my vision is still blurry from acceleration sickness, I'm really hungry, it'll be another 211 days before I'm back on Earth, and, apparently, I smell like a skunk took a shit on some sweat socks. This is the happiest day of my life.

I think I’m drowning. But not into her blue eyes like I happily would. No, I’m sinking into the floor, letting it swallow me whole. I can hardly breathe under the crushing weight of Kitt’s words. My ears ring. My heart pounds. The command echoes in my skull, though I have no idea why he would want this. Why he would want her. Not now. Not after everything. I’m surrounded by the entire court and the only thing I can focus on is not falling to my knees beside her. Marriage. Marriage to someone who isn’t me. Marriage to someone I will spend the rest of my life serving. I’ll lose her forever while being forced to watch. I can’t even look at her. I’m a coward, morphing back into the monster I was when she found me. My vision is blurry, eyes fixed on the dais above. This is how I lose her. Not by death but by something just as binding. The command rings in my head. And to think I wasted so much time trying to hate her. To think I won’t have enough time to love her. My heart aches because every beat belongs to her. And I may never get to tell her that. Is this how she will remember me? Escorting her to this fate? Bound by duty alone? I could laugh. I could cry. I could burn this palace to the ground like I did her house, just for a chance to confess my love before the flames consumed me. Because I am bound to her very being. Hers until the day she realizes I don’t deserve to be. The king’s eyes are on me while mine are somewhere far away. Somewhere with her. A place where I am nothing and no one and happy being powerless, so long as she is beside me. My gaze falls from the fantasy, finding its way to her. This is not how I will remember us. Not as enemies or traitors or monsters, but as two people dancing in the dark, swaying beneath the stars. Her feet atop mine, her head on the heart that beats only for her. Just Pae and Kai. I step away from her kneeling form, masking every emotion with a blank stare. I’m leaving her to face him. Her future husband. I melt into the crowd, standing at a safe enough distance to prevent myself from stealing her away. This will be the rest of my life. Forced to love her from a distance. Mourn the loss of her each day. But I will. I will smother every emotion but the one that belongs to her. I will love her until I am incapable of the feeling. She is the torture I may not survive. Eagerly, she is my undoing. Her gaze lifts, meeting eyes that are not my own. Eyes of the man who gets to have her—if she allows it. She was supposed to be my forever. Now I’ll watch her become someone else’s. Because the beast doesn’t get the beauty.

She wraps her legs around my waist, and I walk us slowly down the hall. "Mmm, wait," she whines against my mouth. "I haven't showered. I'm so gross, and I don't..." She trails off as I turn into my bathroom, then set her down. She shuffles her bare feet against the gray stone tile, an inquisitive look on her face as she looks around the narrow space bathed in neutral hues. I push open the glass door and turn on the shower. Water cascades from the waterfall showered. "Oh," she says as she grins and bites her bottom lip. By the time we've helped each other out of our clothes, the water's warm. I help her in first, then step in. And then, under the hot stream of water, we resume our dirty kissing and grabbing. "Wait, wait." She presses a hand against my chest, then reaches for the shampoo bottle on the ledge. "I do need to get clean first." I laugh and follow her lead by shampooing my own hair and doing a quick rinse with body wash. She holds her hand out for the loofah, but I shake my head. "Let me?" A devilish smirk tugs at her perfect mouth. When she nods and licks her lips, I have to take a second. God, this woman. The way she's sweet and filthy all at once is enough to make me lose it right here. But I refuse. Not before she gets what I'm dying to give her. I work up a lather and run the loofah all over her body. I take my time, paying attention to every part of her. These beautifully curved hips, the fullness of her thighs, the gentle curve of her waist, her arms, her hands, the swell of her boobs. And then I lather up my hands and slowly work between her legs. She clutches both hands around my biceps, and her toes curl against the earthen-hued river rock that lines the shower floor. Her eyes go wide and pleading as she looks up at me. I lean down to kiss her. "Tell me what you want." "You. Just you. Please." With her breathy request, I'm ready to burst. Not yet, though. She reaches down to palm me, but I gently push her hand away. I want this to be one hundred percent about her. When she presses her mouth against my shoulder and her sounds go louder and more frantic, I work my hand faster. She's panting, pleading, shouting. When I feel the sting of her teeth against my skin, I grin. Fuck yeah, my girl is rough when she loses it and I love it. I love her. She explodes against my palm, the weight of her body shuddering against me. I've got her, though. I've always, always got you. When she starts to ease back down, she lets out a breathy laugh. "Oh my god." I nod down at her, which only makes her laugh harder. Then she glances down at what I'm sporting between my legs and flashes a naughty smirk. "Let's do something about that." Soon it's me at the mercy of her hands. My head spins at the pleasure she delivers so confidently, like she knows every single one of my buttons to push. When I lose it, I'm shuddering and grunting. For a few seconds, my vision's blurry. She's that incredible.

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The best of us are cursed with caring, with a bungling and undying determination to protect whatever looks like beauty, even if our vision is blurry.

Maybe the guy could feel my stare burn into him, he slows his speed then stops altogether. He turns back to look at the side of the street where I was with Ana. He looks around for a few seconds until his eyes land straight at me. I freeze. I knew him. But I didn’t. I frown in concentration as my vision starts to get blurry. “Rose, you okay?” Ana asks, hey voice sounded as if I was underwater. All I remember seeing was the same pair of black eyes that haunted my dreams and then darkness.

Walking past Flinders, still remember that day (28th Oct)...my walk was heavy, vision blurry. I saw my body floating on Yarra. Written this poem years back but never got the courage to share it publicly. --

else.’7 What we believe about the world and how we interact with it will very much depend on the worldview that we adopt. When I put my contact lenses in my eyes every morning, suddenly the blurry outlines of my house become clear and distinct. If I then put on a pair of sunglasses as I step outside into bright sunlight, my view of the world will change again. Inhabiting a Christian, atheist or other religious worldview is somewhat like putting on a pair of glasses that changes our focus. The worldview different people adopt might just as easily be an unexamined Western consumerism or strongly held political ideology. Whatever our worldview may be, none of us have unimpeded 20/20 vision when it comes to the true picture of reality. Our assumptions, beliefs and values act as a filter through which we interpret and engage the world around us. In the Christian worldview, intellectual arguments and evidence may help us to establish the fact that God exists and has been revealed in Jesus Christ. But the real task of faith is coming to see the whole world through Christ-focused spectacles.

The reason why we can’t see our eyes moving with our own eyes is because our brains edit out the bits between the saccades—a process called saccadic suppression. Without it, we’d look at an object and it would be a blurry mess. What we perceive as vision is the director’s cut of a film, with your brain as the director, seamlessly stitching together the raw footage to make a coherent reality. Perception is the brain’s best guess at what the world actually looks like. Immense though the computing power of that fleshy mass sitting in the darkness of our skulls is, if we were to take in all the information in front of our eyes, our brains would surely explode.** Instead, our eyes sample bits and pieces of the world, and we fill in the blanks in our heads. This fact is fundamental to the way that cinema works. A film is typically 24 static images run together every second, which our brain sees as continuous fluid movement—that’s why it’s called a movie. The illusion of movement actually happens at more like 16 frames per second. At that speed, a film projection is indistinguishable from the real world, at least to us. It was the introduction of sound that set the standard of 24 frames per second with The Jazz Singer in 1927, the first film to have synchronized dialogue. The company

It feels empowering to tear apart something that broke me first. By the time I'm done, my vision is a bit blurry.

Most people who discover they have ADD, whether children or adults, have suffered a great deal of pain. The emotional experience of ADD is filled with embarrassment, humiliation, and self-castigation. By the time the diagnosis is made, many people with ADD have lost confidence in themselves. Many have been misunderstood repeatedly. Many have consulted with numerous specialists, only to find no real help. As a result, many have lost hope. Individuals with ADD may have forgotten what is good about themselves. They may have lost any sense of the possibility of things working out. They are often locked into a kind of tenacious holding pattern, needing all their considerable resiliency and ingenuity just to keep their heads above water. And yet their capacity to hope and to dream is immense. More than most people, individuals with ADD have visionary imaginations. They think big thoughts and dream big dreams. They can take the smallest opportunity and imagine turning it into a major break. They can take a chance encounter and turn it into a grand evening out. But like most dreamers, they go limp when the dream collapses. Usually, by the time an individual seeks help, this collapse has happened often enough to leave them wary of hoping again. Hope begins with the diagnosis. More than with most disorders, often just the making of the diagnosis of ADD exerts a powerful therapeutic effect. The walls of years of misunderstanding come crashing down under the force of a lucid explanation of the cause of the individual’s problems. While with other medical conditions the diagnosis directs the treatment, with ADD, to a large extent, the diagnosis is the treatment. The diagnosis brings great relief in and of itself. For example, if you were nearsighted and had never heard of nearsightedness, and for years you had thought your blurry vision and subsequent learning problems were due to lack of effort or moral turpitude, imagine your relief in discovering that there was this condition called nearsightedness, and it had nothing to do with effort or morality, but rather was a neurological condition. So it is with ADD. The diagnosis is liberating. Everything else in the treatment evolves logically from an understanding of the diagnosis.

I’m not. Because you’re mine. You’re always going to be mine. I will always chase you and bring you back to me.” My throat aches, and the tears in my eyes make my vision blurry. “You’re willing to chase me forever?” “Yes. I’m willing to fight for you. Because you’re worth it.” “I love you.” It’s all I can manage, but it’s everything I have.

Get some ice on that.” “I will.” She turned toward the house, steady enough. “You get nauseated or have blurry vision, tell Greta.” Abigail started to nod, then checked the motion. He hoped she wouldn’t overdo it. He’d known one too many cowboys to take a fall, keep working, then keel over later. “Lie down and take it easy,” Wade called. “Yes, Dad,” Abigail said saucily. Wade clamped his lips together. Last thing he wanted was Abigail thinking fatherly thoughts of him. Heaven knew, his own weren’t going that direction.

Does Brandon know about this?!” “Yes Carter, Brandon knows everything, I promise. I uh, I cheated on Brandon with Chase not long after you left for Afghanistan, but trust me when I say it is way too long and FUBAR’d to even try to explain tonight.” “Blaze, you can’t just say something like that and not tell me what happened.” My vision got blurry and I blinked back the tears, “Not tonight, kay Carter?” “Yeah, alright.” He shook his head in disbelief, “But he just acts like Liam’s his son?” “Chase was the father, but Brandon is Liam’s dad. He loves him like he’s his own.” I walked over and sat in the seat next to him, “I don’t expect you to understand what that means, it’s hard to explain it to anyone who wasn’t there for everything that happened.” Carter

My vision was confused and blurry. I couldn’t hear at all. I tried to open my mouth to call out, but my mouth wasn’t there. Neither were any of my limbs.

He realised he was in a chair. The world was white and blurry in half his vision, and it took him a few moments to realise a sheet of paper was stuck to his face.

Ryan hung up. Jamie tugged his knees to his chest and curled around them. When the tears came, they brought no relief. Fifteen years of friendship and love, gone. Just like that. An hour or two later, he wiped his eyes and reached for his phone again. His vision was still blurry as he typed a text to Luke. You want some company in Russia?

Marion.” I stilled but didn’t look at him again. I merely waited. The words came, a quiet confession. “I miss you, little witch,” he told me softly, his voice hushed in the quiet of the evening. It sounded almost reverent. A murmured prayer. “Even when I’m in the Below…all I want is to be here with you.” Tears filled my eyes, making my vision go blurry. I tried to blink them away quickly, but there was a rawness in Lorik’s voice that haunted me. His words replayed over and over in my head. “I don’t know if you can ever forgive me, Marion,” he continued. “I don’t know if I even want you to because I don’t know if I can ever forgive myself for betraying you.” My brow furrowed, staring at my night garden next to my cottage, the trellis entrance withering with the cold. “But please know…I am deeply sorry, Marion.” Whatever I heard in his voice—whatever pained, terrible thing I heard—it made me turn to meet his eyes. His lips pressed when he saw the tears glimmering in my gaze, and he took a stuttered step forward, as if he couldn’t help it, before Peek’s barrier pushed him back. I didn’t even care if he saw me crying. Holding my eyes, he said, “I am deeply sorry for betraying your trust. But I am not sorry for everything else.” I frowned.

Wait,” he said. “Before we go anywhere, I need to know who you are. How do you know these things? How do I know you’re not the person trying to harm Beatriz and me? How do I know that I’m not leading you right to her?” Mother paused and took a sip of tea as he tried to think of what he could answer without blowing his cover. “It’s complicated. There’s only so much I can…” His speech began to slur, and his vision turned blurry. One of the last things he saw was the empty vial in Ferreira’s hand as the poison took effect.

The creature flailed as the sword hoisted up in one powerful movement, gutting the beast—nearly cutting it in half. Everything was blurry shapes, now. I was losing so much blood. The creature fell, and a man kicked it off of his sword. Then he approached me. The bloody sunset silhouetted him, but I could make out a dark, critical stare, a set jaw, long black hair bound in a braid over one shoulder. It’s funny how I had spent so much time trying to remember people and failing. And yet, this man’s name came to me easily, like a flame illuminating a darkened room. I heard the Queen’s voice gasp behind me, “What are you doing here?” Brayan’s gaze snapped up, hard and cold. “Why,” he hissed, “is my brother imprisoned in fucking Ilyzath?” My vision went dark.

For example, if you were nearsighted and had never heard of nearsightedness, and for years you had thought your blurry vision and subsequent learning problems were due to lack of effort or moral turpitude, imagine your relief in discovering that there was this condition called nearsightedness, and it had nothing to do with effort or morality, but rather was a neurological condition. So it is with ADD.

You know what Love is, it's believing in him, even when he stops believing in himself, it's finding and reminding him of his lost dreams, it's walking him through his visions and watching him grow in everything that shapes him in his true self, it's finding a thousand ways to simply talk to each other and being fluent in each other's silences, it's watching the stars glow at night to chasing a sunrise in each other's embrace, it's kissing a millionth time and know that's just not enough, it's praying for him before you even start praying for your self, it's choosing him over and over again and growing old in each other's silhouette, it's making him know each moment of every single day of how special he is, it's finding him in everything that he loves and searching for the littlest ways to bring that smile in his heart that makes your Soul smile the most, it's fighting for him and standing up for him every single time, it's making efforts and taking time for each other, it's just literally breathing in your lifeforce in him when he finds life a bit blurry, it's simply a beautiful tornado of finding the most foolish reasons to never leave him to making the most concrete decision that no matter what you would stand right beside him, in every time, in every breath, in every tunnel of Life. Because that's what Love is, it simply means you love him more than you love yourself.

But on her upper arm were five stark bruises, pale purple imprints dug into her bicep. Like a hand, as if someone had grabbed her so hard it hurt. The edges of my vision went blurry. “Who hurt you?” I hissed.

Goals and vision are different. They’re like the two magnifications in progressive eyeglass lenses. When you look down at what’s right in front of you—like you would with the “reading” lenses in progressives—you’re looking at goals. When you look out at the horizon—the “distance” lenses—you’re in vision. But when you try to look at both at once? That’s a recipe for blurriness, confusion, and a headache.

The toxic products of his processed food, along with the pace of life he demands, keep us in a sick and depressed state. We become so vulnerable that we can be addicted to anything that gives us a kick: food, alcohol, sugar, drugs, games, TV, internet, abusive relationships, work, and so on. The result of all this is the same: we lose control of our minds and our lives. Our vision is too blurry to see that every single addiction and associated disease we have leads to more undesirable circumstances for us and more business opportunities for the Mad Man.

My mind seems happy elsewhere. I am in a state of complete and utter prostration and am trying to concentrate with great... no, with enormous difficulty. I open my eyes but something is wrong with my vision, the image is blurry. I finally manage to focus and once again see his eyes – mischievous, contented, almost triumphant – and hear the same question: ‘Do you want more?’ ‘Yes!’ Good God, who is saying that to him? And why does their voice sound so much like mine?

Kevin awoke, not with the slow realization that came from regaining consciousness, nor with the startled gasp of a man having a nightmare, nor even the groan that was stereotypical of anime characters when they wake up—no, when Kevin woke up, it was to the feeling of a hand being shoved down his throat. His eyes snapped wide open. However, he still couldn’t see anything. His eyes perceived nothing beyond the amalgam of blurred colors, mixing and matching and morphing and changing, a sickening compendium that his mind couldn’t comprehend. Images flashed past his vision. A walk on the beach. Red hair. A swell. A raging torrent, an infinite tide of water rising into the sky, cresting against the heavens. He tried to cough, to hack, to something, but it was no use. The hand remained shoved firmly down his throat. And then it was gone. Kevin gagged, and then coughed out what must have been several gallons of water. Each cough wracked his body with pain. Each breath caused his ribs to creak. Even the slightest movement hurt. Something appeared in front of him. It was a blurry green object. What… the… heck? “I’m glad to see that you’re awake,” the shape said. Kevin blinked. “Tell me, how many fingers am I holding up?” “Fingers…” Was what he meant to say. “Fssshrrsss…” Was what he said. “Hmm, it seems your eyesight is a bit unfocused. Here, let me fix that for you.” Kevin would have asked what this object—person? — meant, but he never got the chance—because something smacked him in the head. Hard. “Ouch!” Kevin covered his face with his hands. Gods that hurt! What the hell was he just hit with? A mallet? “What the heck was that for, you crazy coot?!” “Ho? Can you see me now? How many fingers am I holding up?” Kevin was about to answer, but words fled when he realized who—no, what stood before him. Scaly green skin covered a small, squat body, clothed in a plain brown robe. This… thing stood with a stoop. It had a hunch of some kind, and Kevin was certain that the robe was covering something big attached to its back. A really long neck protruded from the robes, which was attached to a reptilian and very bald head. It was holding up three fingers. Mainly because it only had three fingers. “Holy crap, it’s a Ninja Turtle!” The “Ninja Turtle” twitched. “I am not a Ninja Turtle!” It shouted. “Don’t confuse those sea turtle rejects with me!” “Holy crap, it talks!” More twitching. “Of course I talk, you idiot!

But alas, I’m here, drunk off my ass, boobs practically spilling out of my shirt, and my mascara slowly melting off my eyelashes and onto my face, morphing me from new-in-town college girl, to trash panda from the raccoon clan. “Dottie, Lindsay,” I say weakly, moving my head from side to side. “Where art thou?” “You need help?” a deep voice slurs next to me. I look to my right through very blurry vision and make out what I’m going to assume is an incredibly attractive man. But then again, I’m drunk—the whole mascara melting off my eyes in full swing—and I’ve been fooled once before. But hey, I think those are blue eyes. Can’t go wrong with that . . . reasoning that will be thought better of in the morning. “Have you seen Dottie or Lindsay?” “Can’t say that I have,” he answers, resting against the wall with me. “Damn it. I think they’re making out with some baseball players. Have you seen any of those around?” “Baseball players?” “Mm-hmm.” I nod, shutting my eyes for a second but then shooting them back open when I feel myself wobble to the side. The guy catches me by the hand before I topple over, but thanks to his alcohol intake, he’s not steady enough to hold us up and . . . timber . . . we fall to the couch next to me. “Whoa, great placement of furniture,” I say, as the guy topples on top of me. “Damn near saved our lives.” I rub my face against the scratchy and worn-out fabric. “How many people do you think have had sex on this thing?” “Probably less than what you’re thinking.” The couch is deep, giving me enough room to lie on my side with the guy in front of me, so we’re both facing each other. He smells nice, like vodka and cupcakes. “So, have you seen any baseball players around? I’m looking for my friends.” “Nah, but if you see any, let me know. I can’t find my room.” “You live here?” I ask, eyes wide. “Yup,” he answers, enunciating the P. “For two years now.” “And you don’t remember where your room is?” “It has a yellow door. If the damn room would stop spinning I’d be able to find it.” “Well . . . maybe if we find your room, we’ll find my friends,” I say, my drunk mind making complete sense. “That’s a great idea.” He rolls off the couch and then stands to his feet, wobbling from side to side as he holds out his hand to me. Without even blinking, I take it in mine and let him help me to my feet. “Yellow door, let’s go,” I say, raising my crumpled cup to the air. “We’re on the move.” He keeps my hand clasped in his and we stumble together past beer pong, people making out against walls, the kitchen, to an open space full of doors. “Yellow door, do you see one?” I blink a few times and then see a flash of sunshine. “There.” I point with force. “Yellow, right there.” His head snaps to where I’m pointing. A beam of light illuminates the color of the door, making it seem like we’re about to walk right into the sun. I’m a little chilly, so I welcome the heat. “Fuck, there it is. You’re good.” 

Ilost my left eye during blades training at assassin school. My twin brother did the deed using a clever feint and a quick crosswise cut that caught me by surprise. “Well, Carmen, that’ll leave a scar,” Corwin had said. Then he’d laughed that snorty, snotty laugh that had grated on my nerves a thousand times since childhood. My vision had been too blurry to aim a cutting blow at him, and I wasn’t certain if I even wanted to. He was the only family I had. And despite his laughter, he may not have known how deep the wound was. He often made a silly joke when he’d done something stupid. But when I stumbled and fell toward the floor, Corwin dropped his blade and caught me. “Aw, sorry, sis,” he said, holding me against his chest. Then the healers rushed in with their bandages and salves and led me to the healing room. Maestru Alesius—my master—soon followed them, bringing the bad news: “You will lose that eye, Carmen.” I was thirteen. I’d been ahead of my brother on the honor roll—the top of the class. I often wondered if a bout of jealousy inspired my blinding. The blades were sharp, but we students weren’t supposed to cut each other—the idea was to keep the mind sharp as well. And I’d love to know where he’d learned the move. I’d never seen it before, and I was better with the sword than him. Did he have a secret teacher? Everything was harder with only one eye—the sword fights, the dagger throws, learning to avoid traps; even the poisons and potions were more difficult to pour. A half-blind assassin was a joke. I was pretty certain my fellow students had chuckled and celebrated as my position on the honor roll slipped. I had the knowledge and the skill. But the patch over my eye meant I had a weakness, and the school trained assassins to exploit weaknesses. I’d have quit, perhaps to be a scullery maid or to work in the massive wheat fields of the Akkad Empire, if only to get away from the other apprentice assassins who had once been beneath me and who now scorned me. I especially wanted to flee from the kinder ones who looked at me with pity. But Maestru Alesius had insisted I stay. “Adversity will toughen your mental bones,” he’d promised. His support and my perseverance had kept me in school. Three years had passed since the incident. Three years of struggling to keep my spot. I was finally sixteen, in my final week of classes. Corwin would graduate at the top of the honor roll. He was the best with bladed weapons, the best at hiding in shadows, the best assassin the school had seen in many years. He may even be better than the legendary Banderius. All the kings, queens, and archons would seek to hire Corwin. Maybe even Emperor Rima himself. I’d be lucky to get hired at all.

Everyone was like devils with snakes’ eyes trying to coil me up as they tried to suffocate me. Their actions squeezed me until my vision was blurry, and darkness covered my soul. They worked overtime trying to hypnotize me and bury me with their lies. Nobody was to be trusted because everyone was out for themselves.

I think about whether or not things have really changed for people like us. If you had asked me a year ago, I would've replied, absolutely. But life after Kezi's death is different. I know we've made advances. Not acknowledging that would be a slap in the face to those who have worked so hard to improve our society. But we have a hell of a long way to go. It's like I'd been walking around with blurry vision, thinking that fuzzy trees were the norm. And then someone finally decided to slam a pair of glasses on my face and force me to see the world for what it is. The clarity is sickening.

1 Speed=Increases Speed 2 Slowness=Increases Slowness 3 Haste=Increases Mining Speed 4 Mining Fatigue=Makes Mining Slower 5 Strength Increases Player Strength 6 Instant Health=Gives Player Instant Health 7 Instant Damage=Gives Player Instant Damage 8 Jump Boost=Gives Player Jump Boost 9 Nausea=Makes Player Screen Blurry 10 Regeneration=Regenerates Player's Health 11 Resistance=Makes Player Resistant 12 Fire Resistance=Makes Player Resistant To Fire 13 Water Breathing=Longer breathing in water 14 Invisibility=Makes player invisible 15 Blindness=Blinds Player 16 Night Vision=Helps Player see at night 17 Hunger=Gives the Player a hunger effect 18 Weakness=Makes Player weak 19 Poison=Poisons Player 20 Wither=Effect Varies 21 Health Boost=Adds more hearts to your health bar

In the shock of grief, we don't have a clear vision of the emotional storm that is raging inside us. That lack of clarity can be a burden and make us feel blurry and out of touch. But it is also a gift, because seeing that storm as it rages could do more harm than good at this stage. What we do feel and see about ourselves at this point is numbness, confusion, emptiness, lack of feeling, lack of focus, lack of energy. The phrase "I'm not myself" rings true while we are in this state of grief. Your relationship with yourself has been wounded. Know that it will heal

We suddenly remember that it's not the sun that's moving, but the Earth that's spinning and we see with the unhinged eye of the mind our entire planet, and ourselves with it, rotating backwards, away from the sun. We are seeing with "mad eyes" like those of Paul McCartney's Fool on the Hill. The crazed vision that sometimes sees further than our blurry customary eyesight.

The sun at that altitude is an enormous ball of light so powerful that it can burn the inside of your mouth and the inside of your nose. If you take off those protective glasses, within ten minutes your retinas will be seared to total blindness. Hence, I expected that, once the sun was fully out, even behind my jet-black lenses my pupils would clamp down to pinpoints and everything would be infinitely focused. I was certain I was right. It had to work. In the predawn darkness, however, I was too blind to climb. So I stepped out of line and let everyone pass, going from fourth out of thirty-some climbers to absolutely dead last. It wasn’t unpleasant, really, watching everybody traipse past me. I basically stood there chatting and acting like a Wal-Mart greeter until the sun began to illuminate the summit face. As I expected, my vision did begin to clear, and I was able to dig in the front knives on my boots, move across, and head on up to the summit ridge. Then I compounded my problem by reaching to wipe my face with an ice-crusted glove. A crystal painfully lacerated my right cornea, leaving that eye completely blurred. That meant I had no depth perception, and that’s not good in that environment. My left eye was a little blurry but basically okay. But I knew that I could not climb above this point, a living-room size promontory called the Balcony, about fifteen hundred feet below the summit, unless my vision improved. Still believing it would, I said to Rob, “You guys go ahead and boogie on up the hill. At a point that I can see, I’ll just wander up after you.” It was about 7:30 A.M. “Beck,” he answered in that unmistakable Kiwi accent, “I don’t like that idea. You’ve got thirty minutes. If you can see in thirty minutes, climb on. If you cannot see in thirty minutes, I don’t want you climbing.” “Okay.” I hesitated. “I’ll accept that.” This was not a willing and happy answer; I had come too far to quit so close to the summit. But I also recognized the common sense in what Hall said.

Dizzy? Check. Vision blurry? Check. Hands shaky? Check. Perfect for taking on a vampire. Good night to die. Be with you soon mom and dad. I've had about enough of this ride. Time to get off. Of course the conversation would be different at the precinct house: "Hey did you hear about Gordon, sucked to death by a creepy Russian dude?." "Well I always knew he was gay." Screw it.