This is something I wrote a long time back. Pulled it out of the closet now, as I read something on another blog that had a similar message. And no, there's no scope for heartbreak in this one, as Erratica pointed out!!! ;-)

The Blind Men Who See

When you think you’ve done it all one fine day, my friend, come out with me. We’ll walk and we’ll talk, and we might even walk the talk. No more looking for hidden meanings, no more talking about hidden reasons. I might not even utter a word, for all you know: I probably won’t. Two blind men ambling down the lined road, hands in pockets, walking sticks tapping on the gravel. We might hear yells from the children; we might hear the twittering of birds. We might feel the cool breeze wafting down upon us; we might hear the crunch of pebbles underneath our feet. I’m liable to smile then, and I’d advise the same to you.

When we go walking that balmy afternoon, we could sit under the shade of a tree on a wrought-iron bench. I’m one to rest back and sigh aloud. You might hear me sigh, if your ears are keen enough. You might want to smile a bit then, and sigh in contentedness yourself. You might want to tell yourself that you’ve done it all, seen it all, and it’s time you put your feet up and had a slight snort. You might want to put your hands up on the handles of the wrought-iron bench and let your tap-tapping walking-stick rest against your thigh. It’s a black world we see, we blind men, but what of that? It’s a world simply teeming with life, and our eyes are not the sole instruments to experience that fact.

The trees will shed their leaves that afternoon and the squirrels will squeak. I’m not sure whether we’ll be able to hear either. You might want to blow cool air out through your lips, and turn back inside, relegating the outside to a blur. You might see the faces of loved ones floating by in a dead stupor before you, or those vivacious ones that refuse to stay put. You might smile again at their energy and decide that it’s all a case of not having seen enough and done enough with their lives. You might have wanted to be there for them, to steer them around to a way of life that has reaped you such rich dividends. You might want to lay out a hand and caress their faces, their hair, their eyes. I might even get caught up in your dreams, as I listen to you fondly recollect, and I might even slip a tiny teardrop down my cheek. I might be caught up in the rapture of your moment, and I might even hold your hand in empathy.

I might even say a word or two. Your looks and your glances and your quivers may embolden me enough to hold you. I might simply rub your shoulders, my blind eyes seeing yours, or I might even coax you to emerge from your cocoon. We’re friends, you and I, - we have been since the day we could see each other. We’re older than most couples, you and I, - and like most old couples we have forgotten how to converse. We don’t need to anymore. I can’t see your jowls quiver, or your eyebrows arch, but I can understand them, all the same. All the same, I can sense your dreams and your aspirations and your tiredness. Call it what you will, my fancy or a psychic bond, call it what you will, I believe in it with all my heart, nevertheless. We’re friends, you and I, - we have been since the time we could both see… Doesn’t that say it all...?

We might stay put then, you and I. We might not even say a word, and we would understand it all. No more loved ones wafting by, no more talk about disappointed dreams and fulfilled ambitions. Your empire stands behind you, and your future before you. There’s no scope for worry, my friend, not as long as you and I can still sense… Not as long as you still have You by your side. You might wake up one fine day, my friend, and see that your tap-tapping walking stick no longer lies by your bedstead. You might feel alarmed for an instant at that, but you will not hobble along anymore, will you? This memory might stay with you: the lazy afternoon sun, the squealing children, the chattering birds, and then again, this memory too might flit away. It doesn’t really matter, and neither do I. I could be You and You could be Me. You might turn to your left and then to your right, and I may not be hunched there on my walking stick beside you, and you will still be able to see the garden path before you. Children scampering and birds twittering and leaves rustling as they form a velvet carpet for you to tread on, my friend.

So when you think you’ve done it all one fine day, my friend, come out on a walk with me – and I’ll show you the rest of the way.