Gemotions

The concert hall was a beautiful prison. The music, a cacophony of sound, was torture. I gripped my hands. The symphony, the clinking of glasses.

Across the room, a woman, her face buried in her hands, was also obviously struggling. Our shared sensitivity to light, the source of our malady, was suddenly more apparent. We shared a terrible secret.

I wanted to leave, but felt trapped by my own weakness, by the judgment of the world. Then, she met my gaze. The shared struggle, the mutual understanding… it offered no comfort, only the crushing weight of recognition. It was a prison we shared.