Why do i do what he says? He has his reasons for wanting things written down. I don't really care what they are. They are his reasons, not mine. Maybe he wants to be sure i'm paying attention. It's not so he can read this later, ‘cause he can’t. I guess that's it. Something is missing since he can't see any more. Something is missing and he's trying to replace it with something else. And I guess I do care after all, since the first thing I‘ve written, is all about his motivations. So in writing this, I’ve managed to figure something out about him. But what could he figure out about himself this way. And there is still the question of why I agreed to do this.
Here is my answer for now: I made his wanting mine. And I guess if the same logic holds for me as for him, it must be that I'm missing something too and maybe if i write, I‘ll figure out what it is.
Maybe what I’m missing is him – and he's right here as I type this. He is and he isn‘t. He’s lying there on the bed, naked, beautiful, just like when I discovered I loved him, but he doesn't act the same way. It's not just that he's blind, it's that he's completely passive. Maybe that's not quite the right word.
I'm doing this for him - and somehow he got me to do it. He didn't tell me to do it, he asked if I would. He asks questions instead of telling, but it ends up being the same thing, just in a different way. He asks as if it were hypothetical, a test, an experiment – like he doesn't know me or the world or anything, and since he can't see, he has to probe the world with questions, to touch it and see what happens instead of seeing it, knowing for certain how things are.