Focus
by Jon Southurst

 
 

I tore out my right eye today; left it in a dish in the bathroom. All in the name of focus. I'd clenched my right fist just below the eyebrow, pressing the ball down into the recesses of its socket, but no relief came through mere pressure and the situation necessitated a total extraction.

Even the most definite of beliefs lacked focus. Each eye saw a different direction, different courses of action available to me in numerous situations, allowing me to see all sides of a story with way too much objectivity. So it was not just a literal thing. Sure, the vision was blurry with each eye seeing differently. I struggled with depth of field. Phone numbers were dialled incorrectly for eight tries before I got through; I shouldered doorways on my way in and out of rooms. No, it was much more than that.

Life was awful out on the street. Muggers armed with hypodermics came at me from one periphery, old men with Jesus-trolleys from the other; all were blurred. When I tried to shove a Jesus-trolley under a tramcar I missed and overbalanced, sending my body sprawling into traffic. But I began simultaneously to view life from the trolley man's perspective. It spread from there. All beliefs became rational at once; I couldn't boil water without seeing equal purpose in performing the opposite action. Completing tasks became impossible as I understood their futility with perfect clarity.

And, most importantly, I saw exactly why you wished me to rot in hell.