through the eyes of a blind man

The walls in the house creaked at the weight of people on the second floor right above me. Their laughter could be heard through the ceiling that gratefully separated us. They had some kind of boy band playing quietly while they whispered and giggled among themselves. From here you could hear soft jazz the beautiful sax playing off in the back rooms where old grandpa Jim lived. Then sometimes you can hear the sweet sound of the oven timer chime, the soft clicks of heals on the linoleum floor. The open and close of the over, the water running then the soft clicks fading into soft carpet, lost somewhere down the halls.

On a warm day you could hear the trucks and cars pass by, the birds singing their sweet tones, the neighborhood kids playing in the streets, the sounds of the fathers cooking on the grills, all through an open window.

On a cold day however you could hear the soft wind wisp at the window, and sometimes the harsh coldness smash at the window wanting in, but also the soft crackles of a fire that calms you and leaves you at rest. 

These sounds are all I know of the world, how I shape it in my mind. To see through the eyes of a blind man is to hear through your heart.