From the Editor

Blind as you are, you can feel all the more what sickness haunts our city.

The theme of blindness — already a reality in the prophet Tiresias and yet to come in Oedipus — is a key repetition in Sophocles's most well-known psychoanalytic play. The famous conversation between one who is blind to external vision and one who is blind to the vision of his future is perhaps one of the templates for psychoanalytic work, suggesting we are as blind and insightful as the blind man.

The rain is falling; the sky once clear has resigned itself to the clouds that now occupy its space, turning what was once an endless distance, a blue that knew no end, into a heaviness, an oppressive blanket of grey. Although it is fall, and the leaves willingly offer themselves to the ground, this storm has prematurely forced some of them to earth. They are saturated with color — red, yellow, and orange. The light, which already feels like twilight, enhances their color, adding vibrancy that will be lost once this light fades completely. The leaves have begrudgingly separated themselves from the limbs they once collaborated with. The red leaves from the liquid amber cover the path, for now they are untouched, their stems at attention, pointing upward in a final farewell to their lofty beginnings. The leaves still display the splendor of their color, unblemished by the careless trampling of passers-by who do not recognize the impact of their footsteps because they are trying to get somewhere and fully expect to see more leaves before the fall is over. This darkness comes slowly but violently, for tomorrow there will be no more leaves on those trees that only yesterday were resplendent with generous color.

From the intentional to the unintentional, from the failures of the body to the breakdowns of the mind, to be blinded is an inescapable aspect of psychological life — the all too common temporary blindness from the overwhelm of trauma, and permanent blindness, b