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Eyes that once saw the world so clearly, that could catch the smallest details, are now slowly dimming. It seems as if they have lost their former strength, as if they’re tired of all the images they’ve captured over the years. Each look is now like peering through fog—blurred and unfocused, full of distorted outlines that blend into indistinct, hazy forms. These are eyes that fail—clouded windows onto reality, once so full of life, now gradually losing the ability to see the world.
Light passes through the pupils, but it no longer illuminates the world as it once did. Colors lose their intensity, fade, as if each hue is slowly retreating, leaving behind only a dim palette of shadows and shades. Every shade that was once bright and vivid becomes less visible, as if the colors of the world are beginning to blur, losing their former glow. Red is less vibrant, green more muted, and the blue of the sky, once so deep and intense, now resembles only a pale memory.
The sight of details that was once so obvious—the leaves trembling in the wind, fine cracks on old furniture, the roughness of walls in the sunlight—becomes increasingly fleeting. Outlines that were once sharp and clear now dissolve, blending into a uniform mass. It seems as though reality is slowly fading, shifting into an undefined, foggy vision, like an image reflected on water that changes with every movement. These eyes, once so efficient, so keen, now struggle, trying to recreate the fullness of a picture they can no longer capture.
A sense of longing appears, a sadness for what was once so close and is now becoming ever more distant. Looking at the world starts to feel like trying to hold onto a memory—something that is there but slips away at the same time, barely noticeable, fleeting like mist. There is an incredible sadness in it, the awareness that the reality these eyes once knew will never be the same again, that each new day will bring another loss, another step toward an unknown, unclear world of shadows.
These eyes, once full of light, were a mirror reflecting everything that was beautiful, everything that had meaning. Every glance had power, the power to see and understand. But now, as sight slowly fades, these eyes become like a well—deep and dark, filled with mysterious depths. In them, there’s a trace of old memories, reflections of what was once alive and real, but all of it sinks into twilight. These are eyes that begin to live in the past, that hold images of days long gone, even as the present becomes more distant, elusive.
Uncertainty grows with each passing day. It’s as if a part of oneself is being lost, as if each look takes away a piece of who one is. Looking becomes an act of memory rather than perception—a struggle to remember the world as it once was, though now only shadows remain. Every movement, every shape is blurred, indistinct, as if submerged in a deep fog where nothing is certain, where everything gains a new, unsettling form.
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There are moments when these eyes try to fight back, when light falls on them at just the right angle, and for a brief instant, a flash of former clarity appears, as if they want to see the world once more as it was. But that flash quickly fades, giving way to shadows and vague outlines. It’s a moment when hope meets disappointment, when the eyes long to see but cannot. These fleeting glimpses are like a farewell to reality, a reminder that the world, once so vivid and bright, now becomes a distant, misty memory.
Each day, the eyes grow more tired, more resigned. Gazes are shorter, less intense, as if the eyes themselves have surrendered, accepted their fate. They begin to close more often, seeking rest in darkness, a place where there’s no need to see details, where there’s no struggle for every shape, every color. Closed, they become windows to another world—a world of memories, where reality is still full of colors, full of details that once felt so natural, so obvious.
Looking at the world becomes an experience that mixes reality with imagination, truth with memory. The eyes cease to be a mirror of the external world and become a mirror reflecting the inner self—the image of what once was, what remains in memory, though the world before them gradually fades. It’s like looking through fog, where only outlines emerge, indistinct and fleeting, like shadows.
Sometimes, when the gaze becomes focused enough, a flicker of sadness appears in the eyes, nostalgia for what has been lost. It’s not just the loss of the ability to see; it’s the loss of a part of oneself, a piece of reality that can no longer be touched, felt, or seen. These eyes become a place where the past and present mix, where every image is only a shadow of what was once so clear.
Finally, there comes a moment when the eyes stop seeking details, when they accept their limitations, make peace with the silence that fills their gaze. In that silence, there is something beautiful, though deeply poignant—a calm that speaks of accepting one’s fate, of reconciling with a reality where not everything must be seen, where memory and presence are enough. These are eyes that no longer look out into the world, but inward, seeking there what has been lost.
Each day becomes a quiet farewell to reality, a transition into an inner world where sight no longer reaches. The eyes become like closed doors, full of secrets, full of memories. They reveal nothing anymore; they are silent, calm, as if they carry within them an entire universe of things they have seen, remembered, and now carry with them, locked in that silence, in that depth.
These are eyes that fail, but that are still full of life, full of love for what they have seen, for what they have preserved in memory.
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