"There are some who waste their lives wishing for the unattainable. And there are others who accept that they can't have it. The latter are logical." - Albert Einstein
"So, where're we off to first?" I asked, clapping my hands together. I decided that Gazzy should be running the show for this little adventure, since he could actually see the signs for exhibits and what-not.
"Um, let's see," Gazzy said, "Oh, I'm looking at the board that lists all the different exhibits. Let's go to the...medieval weapons section."
"Cool," I agreed, grinning, "Let's brush up on some ancient offense devices!"
Gazzy giggled. "I can't believe they even have stuff this old still," he started, slipping his fingers in mine so he could lead to me towards the exhibit, "I bet it's all probably fake."
"Most likely."
We walked for about a minute or two, turning occasionally. I could hear people murmuring "how fascinating" or "what beautiful craftsmanship", and other junk like that. I tried to remain positive, even though an art museum was pretty much the last place that I wanted to be. How was I supposed to enjoy the art? Then again, I probably wouldn't have enjoyed it even if I did have sight.
"We're here!" the Gasman announced, stopping abruptly. "Oh my gosh, how did people actually wear this stuff? It's so weird looking!" He grabbed my hand laid it down onto a piece of gray metal, or at least, that's what I thought it was, judging by how cold it felt. "These are...uh, I'm reading the nameboard right now. Ah. They're called lances. They're like really big, long sticks or something, with like, a huge knife blade attached to the top."
"Awesome!" I grinned, sliding my hand over the thing.
"Dude, don't touch that!" Gazzy cried when I reached the top of the "lance." "You're gonna cut yourself!"
I guess I had reached the blade area of the lance. As it turns out, the Gasman was right about the stuff being fake. The blade seemed to be made of plastic, so it wasn't sharp or life-threatening in any way.
I decided I would spice up this museum thing.
"Ow!" I cried, clutching my hand, "What was that thing?" I asked frantically.
"It was the blade! Are you OK?"
"Do I look OK?" I asked sarcastically.
"Lemme see, lemme see!" I resisted the urge to burst out laughing. The Gasman sounded like he was going to pee his pants.
"Look!" And with that, I slapped the palm of my hand onto his face.
"Iggy! What the he- hey you're not bleeding!" He sounded affronted.
"Oh, look at that, I'm not!"
"You will be soon!"
Turns out, the art museum isn't such a bad place after all. The medieval weapons were actually kind of fun. I couldn't imagine them exactly, because there was only so much description an 8-year old could give, but I got the gist of what the stuff looked like it. I wanted to be a knight. It'd be fun to try to poke people's eyes out with that stuff. Wait, that just sounded totally violent.
The Gasman and I also learned the earliest gunpowder formula. Coal, salt, pepper and sulfur. We had try that out sometime. Shout out to all our medieval brothers.
Anyway, it was going pretty good for about the first 45 minutes (we spent a longer time than most people because Gazzy had to describe all the stuff for me), until the "curator" showed up and ruined all the fun.
"Excuse me son, but you're not supposed to be touching the exhibit," he said pompously. Come to think of it, everything he said sounded pompous. Just imagine him with a snotty British accent. Do it, just do it.
"But sir, I have to. I'm blind," I said pitifully.
The curator was unfazed. "You most certainly are. It clearly says 'do not touch.'"
"Sir, I really am blind." I said irritably.
"Then I suggest not to waste your time at an art museum." he sneered.
"Excuse me for thinking that the visually impaired could enjoy art." I muttered under my breath.
He heard me. "You are excused. Now, I would suggest getting your grubby fingers off the exhibit before I call security."
I took my hand off the..what was it called? Oh yeah, the pike.
"Good job," he said, as if he were talking to a two-year old.
"Let's blow up his office," I heard the Gasman whisper.
I shook my head. You couldn't just blow up every jerk you met. No matter how bad you wanted to.
While we were in the "abstract expressionism" exhibit, we ran into Max and Fang. Isn't it so weird how they got paired up together? My sarcasm hand is raised.
"What are you guys doing here?" Max asked. "I thought you'd be in the armory."
Well Max, we already went to the armory. But you don't need to know that, since I'm sensing an "Iggy and Gazzy = violent" stereotype coming from you, almost as common as the "Fang = emo" stereotype.
"Well, it's the easiest place for me to describe what I'm seeing to Iggy." the Gasman explained, skipping over her question. Great minds think alike.
"You've gotta be kidding," Fang said, "Seems like the hardest place to be describing stuff. 'Cause there's no...actual...pictures here."
That, dear Fang, is because you have no sense of imagination.
"I can detect color fields, remember?" I reminded them. "And then Gaz makes up the rest. What he thinks the picture represents."
"Yeah, like that one over there," Gazzy said, "It says Untitled #5, but I call it Happy Breakfast. Take two gigundous sunny side-up eggs, stomp on the yolks, then dance around a little bit with an open bottle of ketchup in one hand and a can of motor oil in the other."
I nodded. The artist was probably on crack while he painted it. It seems that your work is more popular if you complete it while on drugs. Take any of the lyrics to Lady Gaga's songs for example.
Ah, modern art.
"OK guys, time to report," Max announced.
Ah, now we had to answer those questions she gave us about things we learned about ourselves, the world, insights about poverty and hunger...I was pretty hungry...
Anyway, I knew exactly what I was going to say. I just hoped that Max wouldn't freak out. But, knowing Max, she probably would.
But seriously, do they think I like being blind? Just because I don't complain and crack jokes about it doesn't mean I like it.
I had dared Fang once to keep his eyes closed, the whole day. He failed epically after a record-setting 2 minutes and 17 seconds. But I couldn't just open my eyes and accept defeat when I'd had too much. My eyes were already open, they were always open, and the sad thing was that unlike others, I couldn't see when they were open. Maybe I should close them.
But unfortunately, I'm not suicidal or depressed, so I'm not going to do that. I just wished that there was some way I could get my sight back. Kicking Eraser butt was fun and all, and the satisfaction we all felt when Itex collapsed was great, but getting revenge couldn't undo the damage. Sometimes I think I would even trade my wings for my sight.
I was blind. In a world filled with colors, with shapes, and touch could only do so much. Actually seeing things was so much different.
You can't miss what you've never had right? Well, I had had sight. And they took it away from me. Because I didn't matter. Because they had no idea how important sight is.
Those paintings Gazzy told me about would have been so much cooler if I had seen them with my actual eyes, not just my mind's eye, because, let's just say my mind doesn't exactly have 20/20 vision.
If I could see, then my life would be so much different. I'd be able to see Angel, and tell her how cute she is, I'd be able to see Max when she rolls her eyes at me, I'd be able to see Fang and then tell Max that she could do much better. The world would be different. Everyday would be a thousand times better than before.
I've never seen the sky. It's sad, but true. Back at the School, we were never let out of the building. Heck, we were barely let out of our cages. And my sight had been long gone before Jeb had taken us out of there.
You couldn't touch the sky, Kanye West songs be damned. Even when you can fly, touching the sky is still impossible. I've tried. I don't care if you think that's lame, because I want to know what the sky looks like. If I could at least touch it, I would know the color of it. I mean, I know the sky is blue, but still. When Nudge squeals about how pretty the sunset looks, I wish that I could know what it looks like too. People take beauty like that for granted. If I could get just one glimpse of the sky, of an ocean, of a tree, I just might be complete inside.
None of the flock understands. They empathize, but they'll never know what it's like.
"Iggy?" Max snapped me out of my reverie. "What about you?"
"I learned I want to see."
But that can never happen.