I live in an Impressionist painting. Lines and colors blur. I see no sharp edges. More Pointillism than clearly defined points.
Strings of Christmas lights increase in diameter ten-fold in a diffused fashion. Streetlights and headlights sparkle and spread. Candles are better, bright lights hurt.
I see spots before my eyes! And squiggly lines dart about. I see something in my peripheral vision. No, it’s all in my head.
Faces are a mystery if they are too far away. Far away is only a few feet. Others must think I’m a snob when I can’t read their facial expression from a short distance. My eyes just fail to read a smile, a frown, a grimace. Sorry, I’m blind to your emotions.
That’s my world without eyeglasses. Thick and heavy ones for the hopelessly myopic. This is my artistic vision. I can’t see the scientific narrative.