The minotaur,
by Leonor Henríquez

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      The minotaur ate my eyeglasses.

Not that one from the Knossos labyrinth in Crete, but Mango, my daughter’s Golden Retriever puppy.

I had blurry vision for several days, waiting for an appointment with my ophthalmologist.

At first, I felt quite uncomfortable, having difficulty reading and with other daily activities.

My eyes struggled, without success, to look for the clear lines, those that surround the world, that separate objects, that contain the individuality of things, words, and people.

But, as the days went by, slowly, I became accustomed to that other world of murky, diffuse contours, which gave a very interesting atmosphere to everything around me.

An impressionistic air.

During those days, it was as if the objects around me wanted to escape from their containers, spill out, expand, express their intimacy beyond their restricted spaces. A visual language unknown to me.

An invisible but fertile territory, spreading among the forms, which created an ethereal, and even more spiritual, atmosphere around me.
Walking through life like Mister Magoo (for those who remember him) puts you in the mood of a poet or a madwoman.

I have already changed my glasses for even better ones, since they revised the prescription.

In the end I must thank the minotaur, sorry, Mango, for forcing me to renew my eye exam.

With my modern and powerful lenses, I see a high-definition world in its contours, but I also perceive more loneliness among the spaces that surround people and things.

After this visual, or existential experience if you like, sometimes I doubt if I see better now, or if I am blinder.

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