The blind writer. Narrative text

I’ve seen the lights since I remember. They are pink, and sometimes yellow. My mother says she can’t see them because only kids like me can. She loves when I see the lights; she tells me she feels happy, so she puts my hands into her mouth to show me, I feel the curve of her lips, and how her cheeks suddenly seem bigger.
She is beautiful, but not as much as the lights I see. My mom says they are angels that come to play inside my eyes, they roll and fly through my head, and they seem brighter because they fly in darkness.
I always ask her if she sees some kind of light, if she sees the angels. And she answers that it is difficult for her to see the lights because that is only for sweet boys like me, because angels laugh and talk as I try to sleep.
I know what darkness is, and I am not afraid of it. There is always a light fluttering, and they fill the black with colours, all type of lines and circles, pink, yellow, red, green. I know the colours because mom has taught me how they are, I love her so much, I hope one day she could be able to see all the lights.


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