Deviation Actions
Literature Text
Warm rays of sunlight peek through the crack between the curtains and touch softly on my skin. She tells me they make no sound, and I'm glad. With the curtains closed our worlds become almost the same. At any rate, the light is just as warm to me as it is to her. If I close my eyes, we can be one.
I can see the keys before me, can see the soft twisting of light they reflect as I play them, but they are silent to me. I only know the music they make is beautiful because she tells me so. My world is bright and colourful, but it is quiet. She is the only one who speaks to me.
Not just with the flourishes of her hands as she signs to me how pretty the new tune I've written is, but also in the soft touch of her fingers on my skin, her light breath on my face, and the worlds she creates on canvas. She tells me I am beautiful in a way I can never know, and somehow it means more when she says it. She's not the only one who does; so many others have called me a genius, an inspiration. A deaf pianist, what a miracle!
I don't think it's a miracle. If it was, I wouldn't know. I see the keys, I play them, they say it makes them feel something beautiful but it means nothing to me. All I know is what she tells me.
And I struggle to speak back because speaking is hard for me, and I don't know what she hears when I do. What I say is probably different from what I mean, and I can't know if it is or not. I find I cannot sign happiness or sadness or love and give it the same meaning it has in my heart. And when I compose, I can't understand my own songs. The only way I can really speak to others is when I write.
But my words are silent, and they cannot speak to her. Yet I still speak to her better than anyone else, though I don't know how. All I know is that she hears me, and she loves what she hears.
Maybe it's the same as why I love her. She touches me in a way that she cannot understand. She creates beautiful worlds that I try to describe to her, but my words are never enough. She'll never know what her creations make me feel, but maybe that is what makes them so wonderful.
It's hard to hold back tears when I stop to think about it. She is my inspiration. She lets me know what I make her feel by making me feel the same way. She is a miracle, and the words 'blind painter' don't even begin to describe why. She lights this word with a light she cannot see, gives it a meaning she cannot understand, she exists to create a paradise open to everyone but herself.
And so I finally understand. This is what I am to her, this is what I make her feel. We may not be able to know the beauty in ourselves, but we can know the beauty in each other. She is the meaning in my life, and I am the meaning in hers.
I don't know how, but I can feel these words rush through me and into the notes I am playing. She places a hand on my arm, and I know that I feel as warm to her as she feels to me. I smile at her and see that she's singing. I cannot hear her, but somehow I know that it sounds beautiful.
