The Writer With No Eyes

Photo by Am on Unsplash

February 16, 2026.

I am not a perfect person.

Perhaps I can be distant, reserved, or difficult to understand at times. In Western astrology, my rising sign is Aquarius — whether viewed as symbolism, mythology, or simply humanity’s endless attempt to understand itself — I sometimes wonder if it reflects something within me: a longing to improve the human condition, to protect the living world, and to search for truths beyond what is immediately visible, while still feeling slightly apart from the world I inhabit.

Perhaps that distance was shaped by the landscapes of my youth — landscapes that were, for the most part, hellscapes: domestic turbulence, emotional cruelty, frequent relocations that never allowed stability to take root, and socioeconomic oppression that produced cycles of financial instability and precarity — experiences that left their marks upon the raw fabric of time and unobtrusively followed me into adulthood.

At times, I question my own nature.

Am I selfish? Am I too proud? Do I disappear too often into the endless corridors of my own thoughts?

I know I may appear guarded, even unreachable, yet beneath that surface exists a heart that feels intensely. A Moon in Leo, if viewed symbolically, reflects a hidden warmth — a desire to love openly, to create, to express, and to be known not through perfection, but through sincerity.

Sometimes I wonder if I focus too much on what is broken rather than what is beautiful, and whether my reflections might appear ungrateful — when in truth, I carry a deep appreciation for the blessings, lessons, and fleeting moments of grace that have been inscribed upon my life.

With a Taurus sun, I often imagine myself as the bull standing alone in a field — grounded, patient, stubborn at times, enduring beneath changing skies. There is wisdom in holding your place as storms pass overhead and through you.

Independence has always been woven into my nature. I have never moved easily with expectation or with the current of the crowd. Instead, I have been drawn toward meaning, authenticity, and the inner voice that continues to ask:

What is true? What matters? What kind of life is worth creating?

And yet, despite my desire to belong, there are moments when I feel as though I exist just beyond the edge of connection — close enough to witness, but far enough away to remain unseen.

I am shy.

But when I love, when I truly connect with another soul, there is no performance. There is only honesty. There is a tenderness within me that is not always revealed immediately. Opening my heart has never been difficult because I lack feeling; it has been difficult because I have learned that precious things must sometimes be protected.

Perhaps that is why I recognize myself in the sentiment expressed in Too Good at Goodbyes by Sam Smith — the instinct to prepare for loss before it arrives, not because love is unwanted, but because it matters more than words can explain.

There is no attraction to surface alone. What captures my attention is something far more lasting: integrity, intelligence, emotional awareness, kindness, and the rare strength of those who do not need to announce their power because it is already present.

Perhaps Mercury, Venus, and Jupiter in Gemini, viewed symbolically, reflect a sustained fascination with language, conversation, ideas, and the vast, unfolding architectures of consciousness. I have long been captivated by inward life itself — by the collective narratives humanity is threaded with, the latent questions resting beneath its answers, and the unseen dimensions that remain unspoken within human existence.

Perhaps Mars in Cancer reflects another part of me: the image of a creature carrying its home upon its back. A being that longs to wander, yet instinctively returns to shelter when the world becomes too heavy.

And perhaps there is nothing wrong with that.

There is beauty in restraint. There is wisdom in reflection. There is sensitivity in observation. There is honesty in searching.

I am learning that my differences are not imperfections waiting to be erased, but fragments of myself waiting to be understood.

I see the world — perhaps not always in the way others do.

I notice the forgotten details. The overlooked stories. The emotions beneath spoken words. The spaces between what is said and what remains hidden.

I do not simply observe the world. I absorb its echoes.

I feel it.

I see grief without witness — the person alone in an unforgiving world, asking for no more than presence.

I see the working person sleeping in a vehicle because housing has moved beyond their reach — a life reduced to survival, where shelter has become conditional and even temporary refuge is increasingly restricted. This is not an exception but a condition shared by many who work full-time yet remain suspended beneath the cost of living, unable to secure a home, an apartment, or even a night of rest without financial strain.

I see the retired firefighter denied a promising medical treatment for lung cancer because cost is weighed more heavily than continuity of life — a reality shared by many, including veterans and children, whose access to care is shaped not only by need, but by systems that decide when healing is permitted.

I see ambition pressed against structure — the aspiring real estate agent, electrician, or tradesperson meeting barriers of fees, certification, and access before momentum can even begin.

There are those who give themselves fully to the needs of others — teachers, nurses, grocery store workers, and small business owners — until exhaustion becomes routine rather than exception.

I see pain becoming ordinary: the infected tooth endured for months, the appointment postponed again, the body carrying what should have been healed because relief has become a privilege. And this pattern extends far beyond dental care — to every condition delayed, every treatment deferred, every person forced to negotiate with their own suffering because healing has been placed beyond reach.

I see intelligence held back not by capacity, but by cost — education postponed, deferred, or abandoned under financial weight.

I see food and water governed by systems of cost and control, and the gradual conversion of normal life into managed access points, with the slow suggestion that even air, even time outdoors, may one day follow.

There are those who try to preserve the lives of the animals they love, but find even veterinary care made prohibitively expensive, leaving animals unjustly without the care they need. I see grief without witness — the person alone in a challenging world, asking for no more than presence.

The orphan. The abused. The forgotten. The outcast.

And beyond the human scale, I see systems of pressure extending into the natural world.

Forests reduced. Species displaced. Habitats fragmented.

The tiger pushed toward settlements. The elephant carrying loss across generations. The rhino reduced to value. The orangutan separated from canopy memory. The sea turtle navigating polluted return paths. The wolf and polar bear losing territory. The bees disappearing in silence.

What remains is not only loss, but continuity within loss — life persisting under constraint.

And still, there are forms of endurance that do not announce themselves.

Quiet survival. Unrecorded resilience. Persistence without recognition.

Perhaps that is why I write.

I find meaning in simple things: pages of a book, warmth in my hands, rain striking glass, wind moving through old growth trees, and the rare arrival of genuine human connection — and non-human connection, which is present in every moment, such as the unconditional love of a cat.

I have tried to live without cruelty. I resist gossip. I resist the urge to diminish others to elevate myself. I try to remember the fragile abundance that still exists in small, ordinary moments.

Breath in the body. Love once received. Beauty that appears briefly and disappears like light across water.

I will forever hold reverence for life — human, animal, and the natural world.

And I struggle with injustice — with systems that allow suffering to persist, and with the circumstances that shape, constrain, and determine lives before choice is ever possible.

I know this not only through observation, but through experience.

Hardship has been present in my life. So has sorrow. So have memories that changed me.

But suffering did not erase my ability to feel. It deepened it.

My heart is not perfect. It carries scars, hesitation, doubt.

But it is alive. It still reaches outward.

I have eyes, yet I have learned that sight is not the same as seeing.

I do not see only what is visible. I see through compassion. I see through memory. I see through the invisible language of feeling.

Like a blind calf searching through the darkness, trusting the warmth of what it cannot see, I have learned that the deepest forms of knowing do not always come through the eyes.

I am the Writer With No Eyes.

Author: © Nicolette Kolar Queen’s Crown & Akhenaten