A horse wears blinkers so it cannot look sideways. Someone else fastened them.
The ones that matter are the pair you chose yourself — the frame you built, the rule you set, the certainty that you, at least, can spot the story being sold. Nobody argues with the version they arrived at themselves.
These are not glasses. They are the shape of a decision.
She faces the same direction as the horse. Only one of them can choose to look away.
Back to back, the same restriction, two different reasons for wearing it.
The bridle on him is visible. Someone buckled it. Hers came without a buckle.
His eyes are uncovered. He sees the whole field, and it changes nothing.
Close enough to be told. Neither of them says it.
The finer the frame, the longer you keep it on.
You call them clarity. They fit perfectly — you had them made.
It begins to pass between them. One eye first.
Now he wears them too, and they match. Whoever agrees with you is not proof.
