How do you explain the color blue?
Saying “It’s the color of the sky” really means nothing. The sky? What is the sky to one who cannot see? There is nothing tactile, nothing tangible that one can say, “This. This is the sky, this is blue.”
You could say, “The sky is where the sun is.” But the sun is simply a sensation, warmth, as close as your skin. It doesn’t live far distant, but wraps itself around you every time you step out the door.
How do you explain the sky? Or stars?
“Stars are light.” But what is light? It has no scent, nor sound. When you have never known anything but dark, you cannot even call it darkness, because it simply is. Light and darkness are meaningless, to one who has never seen. And a star? A star is not warmth. “Twinkle, twinkle, little star” and what does twinkle even mean? A song for children, full of nonsense words. What is a star?
Or night? The rhythm of your day, unquestioned, yet arbitrary–for night is simply “when we go to bed,” and day, “when we play.”
A common language, rendered–not incomprehensible, but not-quite-comprehensible–by the absence of one key clue.
A language permeated with sight, with colors and light and darkness and things that can be neither tasted, smelled, heard, or felt.
And I weep, because no matter how far I try to go, no matter how much I try to understand,
there is still that one, impenetrable barrier
erected every day
when I greet her:
“It’s good to see you.”