Risk. wrote:Username: Risk.
Show Name (optional): Blind Prophet
Name: Prophet
Gender: Stallion
Colour: Silver Seal Bay (Ee/AtAt/ZZ)
Age: 9 years
Height: 14.1hh
How do they cope with their blindness?
Prophet has never considered his blindness to be a handicap. He's heard his name whispered in the shadows of hallways, from one rider to another, and even amongst the horses. He was kept in a corral, perfectly secluded from the others- safe. Safe from others, safe from himself, and isolated from the rest because he was different. His name in itself was a biting reminder of his difference to the rest of the horses at the barn, and perhaps he'd feel the nip every time it was spoken if he was more sensitive.
Fortunately for him, he's not.
Prophet was born blind, he's always been blind, and what he could see through his film covered eyes were grey smudges in a black canvas and that was as wide as his world was and would ever be. Color held no distinct meaning for him, the only two colors he had was black and grey of various shades. Shape held very little meaning for him as well, though as life went on he began to distinguish different things. For example- every fence more or less looked like the same grey smudge in his vision, and now he understood when his eyes perceived that smudge he was facing a fence. Of course it was all very ambiguous, he was blind, but it was something.
His hearing was sharper than average though, he could tell when a human stepped on dirt versus gravel, or when they had a rope halter versus a nylon one simply because of the way it sounded in their hands. So- Prophet coped and he coped well.
His blindness was not a handicap, not in his clear grey eyes like blown glass. His blindness was not a burden, but by no means did it make life easier. His blindness was put a single part of him, something he was born with and something he would die with and he copes as he will- by accepting it. He will never jump, and he will never dance across a show ring. He will never witness that flash of cameras as he crosses the liver pool, he'll never feel the rush of adrenaline through his bloodstream as his hooves beat down on a racing track. The sights of the forest on a trail would be lost to him, as well as the strangeness that is humans. But that doesn't mean he can't listen to all of this, the chirp of birds in the woods and the sound of cheering and of horses' hooves pounding on the race track. At least then, somewhere within the watery, murky and black depths of his own mind, he can do all those things and picture the crowd cheering out for him, and the photographer snapped his picture and that it was his hooves marking up the racetrack.
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