The Prescription Sunglasses with the Strap at the Back

Stephen loved the semi-colon. Stephen knew that this love was irrational yet in his heart he knew it to be true and he could not have it any other way. Stephen walked from his English class into the halls and felt cramped. He could do anything; he was big and held potential and in him ebbed and flowed the feeling that he could accomplish great things. He felt wide-shouldered and imposing, not with physical prowess, but with the knowledge that he was armed with the ability to fulfill and endless number of possibilities that awaited him.

The sun bounced sharply off the metal in the parking lot and it stung. Stephen reached into his bag and put on his sunglasses. The lenses were tinted black and the rims were black as well, and the strap that wound around the back of his head had a little bit of red lining. He walked around to the front of the school and he felt the probing eyes of his schoolmates on him. The glances were fleeting, but they lingered longer than normal looks, and accompanying those slight lingerings were tiny arrows that whittled away at the defenses of Stephen’s self-esteem, and they stung more than the bouncing light. Stephen sucked in his gut and bottled his emotions and tried to feel as big and unfaltering as he had in the hallways not a moment ago. He tried to be the semi-colon: tall and unique and resolute, and not afraid to be in the middle, holding everything together. Unique and uncommon, different and special and evincing from some feelings of power and beauty, just like it did from Stephen. Through some incomprehensible process, the irrationality and uniqueness of these thoughts made Stephen even more believing in his love, and he was filled with a renewed sense of composure. He smiled discreetly and made his face look easy and relaxed and he gave his walk a slight bounce. He had seen someone else with a bouncy walk and it gave the impression of nonchalance, so Stephen had started walking that way when he was trying to overcome harmful attacks from his self-conscious.

“Why does it have to be so sunny today, I have to wear these things now.” Stephen stood upright and talked with his friends. His eyes were cold and he had small, glaring, semitransparent vision spots which made him uneasy. His arms felt heavy and rough against the side of his waist and he didn’t know what to do with them. He laughed and joked but his speech seemed distant and not part of him. A feeling of misplacement and a lust for movement made him leave the school and start his walk home. The walk home was thinking time: torrents of thoughts bounced illogically within his head, each thought rising to the surface of his mind briefly and then submerging once again into deeper recesses, each failing to establish a foothold on Stephen’s full attention. He contemplated why he left the school so quickly without staying to talk to his friends; he didn’t have anything else after school. He thought about his love of words and the gentle rolls and shifts in cadence of sentences. Paradise by the Dashboard Light kept his ears company and his lips moved rhythmically to the song.

The May sun was a gentle warm: it was not too hot as to generate an uncomfortable sweat, yet not noticeably cold either. He crossed the street and a girl driving one of the cars waved to him. He did not know who she was, but he suddenly felt within him a deep affection for her, as if he had known her for a long time and they had disclosed secrets to one another. It was not a physical attraction, more a strong, spiritual, mutual affection. Stephen longed for love. Young love - according to him - was a different kind of love: carefree and innocent where both parties are inexperienced so neither can do wrong. Stephen could see himself with the girl in the car: they had just experienced a tragedy and they only had each other. They were falling in love without knowing it, and in one single, beautiful moment they realized that the feelings were reciprocated and that they loved each other. A hard murmur beat in Stephen’s chest because he had imagined the love so vividly and becoming conscious of the fact that he would likely never experience such a thing sent him into a momentary depression. His jaw became set and his eyes fell. His legs were stiff and his arms were hot in his jacket and there were sweat rings forming where his glasses touched his skin.

What if I take them off?

Stephen liked being alone and he knew the difference between being alone and lonely, and he was certain that he was not lonely. He had a close group of friends that hung out on the weekends and he had a beautiful family, but he felt different. Not alone, just different. And in that moment his longstanding battle with his feelings of difference was won unequivocally by the glasses. A great feeling of independence flowed within him like a grand ocean wave, carrying on its crest a message saying: “do what you must do and do it with purpose and without indecisiveness.” He reached into his bag and took out the stiff case. It felt bulky and awkward, but familiar. The glasses were off in an instant and in the case, then in the backpack. Stephen walked on.

He walked along the precipice of doubt: doubt in his actions because he knew what he was doing was not right. But no one was staring at him, no gaze lingered. People on the sidewalks and in their yards didn’t notice him, and they paid him to heed. Was it like this before? He could not remember.

The clouds parted and the sky was bluer than before which made the sun sharper than before. Stephen’s eyes felt cold once again, and a small needle of pain manifested itself in the back right area of his head. His arms felt loose and he looked around at the walk which he had walked so many times before. Everything was the same. The sunglasses had made his world darker, but now the world seemed dull and unoriginal. He tried desperately to enjoy himself, to reaffirm his decision of taking them off, but his efforts were in vain, and he felt confused and upset: why had he taken them off? He continued to convince himself that he was a different person without them, more homogenized. This is what he wanted.

The sun shone brighter than ever, and the rays penetrated deep. Why did he leave the school so early; what was he planning on doing? How did he get a ninety-three on his arithmetic when he knew everything and should have gotten a 100? How can one even start to understand the meaning of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man? Stephen was dazed and he was wrapped in an inquisitive confusion. And then the blurry, transparent, distorting vision spots returned stronger, this time in his right eye alone, and a furious calm befell Stephen. How could he have been so irresponsible? How did the decision seem so right in the moment, yet so irresponsible now? He tried to focus on a street sign, but could not, which only redoubled his fury and his calm. A dejected, beaten, exasperated sigh escaped from his fixed lips and he was carried to his house by a hearse of dull, white anger and regret and frustration. It handled him roughly, each interruption of smoothness a reminder of the consequences of his actions.

No one was home when he arrived. He made his way upstairs and emptied his bag, all the while partially blinded by the vision spots. Finally, when he could suppress his thoughts no longer, he made his way to his room. He took the glasses from his pocket and set them abruptly on his dresser. What should have been a shielding protection, a prevention of pain, was now a decoration without meaning on display. Why did he love the semi-colon? Did he tell himself that he loved it purely because he felt unique because of it? But being different was good, he thought. He lay down on his bed, still filled with confusion and anger and a perverted sense of who he was. Why did he ever take them off in the first place? Stephen closed his eyes, and allowed the migraine to take over, still confused about who he was.