I remember it thusly: I had lost my vision and no longer could see and as the weeks stretched into months into years with no sight, it only quite naturally, wore me down and ground me to a nub until I considered the unconsiderable. The unpossible may just be possible.

I could give up programming.

For a time I programmed on paper, on tiny sheets of cue-card square firm paper cutouts with a pen, which I would look at for an instant and hopefully focus and be able to read before my vision would sharply cut out again. But there I was quite prominently and promptly in the dark scribbling away a tiny time and mostly living in my head thinking and imagining and crunching through problems. But it was painful.

A lot of code and algorithms benefit incredibly from having a live interpreter available, a REPL, a quick-response turn-around try-things-out sort of feel where you explore algorithms and walk through code and see patterns much faster than you can by tracing execution in your head. But when all you have is your head, there is not much choice, is there?

In a way I was in a virtual prison, in a way I still am. Prisoner of the past, bitter to the core, and full of piss and vinegar for the world at large. I walk the streets at night spoiling for someone to fight me, to test me. My looks which during the daytime are blank or somewhat friendly, at night become full of defiant glory.

It was this defiance that kept me going when all around me were counseling me to change careers, as if programming was something I did for money or glory, and not for the simple basic reason that I live to program and the programs live to run inside my blood, like a million execution units coursing through my bloody veins you fucking incomprehending unendingly boring inept corrupt little peasant bitches.

Running to and fro, fro and to trying to make a buck to stave off anxiousness, not real starvation, has led most to lead small lives full of tiny thoughts and even tinyer outcomes. These outcomes are the direct consequence of peasant style materially-inundated imaginary needs that fill their petty little goblin heads with desires that would be better dealt with by a quick blow to the head. With a cricket bat, or three.

To become something else by simply changing one's job is to define yourself by your job. I have no job. I don't work. I don't do shit. That's my mantra in a nutshell. I live freely and exist until I won't, and either I will become worm-food or ash dust mote. I would prefer the latter because fire has such an epic quality to it. And oh the finality of being cremated!

Really, overall, people can just piss off. I sit now, in full vision, at the height of my powers once more, on the throne of thought, looking down at all the wastes of lives and of blood and flesh and think that the slaughtering of them would compare at most to the slaughter of a goat, or a sheep. Not even that, most likely, because I have no interest in eating a useless human pissant.