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I have no mind’s eye: let me try to describe it for you I have aphantasia, a neurological condition that leaves me with a ‘blind mind’s eye’: the inability to mentally visualise my thoughts. While most people are able to ‘see’ images associated with stories and thoughts when their eyes are closed, I have never had this gift. When I close my eyes, I experience only darkness. I have no sensory experience. Aphantasia has likely existed throughout our evolution, but it wasn’t documented until 1880, when Francis Galton asked people to imagine a breakfast table and, based on their reports, noted that the vividness of the scene in the mind’s eye occurred on a spectrum. The term ‘aphantasia’ itself was coined only recently, in 2015, by Adam Zenman, professor of cognitive and behavioural neurology at the University of Exeter. In his writings, Zenman explains that voluntary imagery is generated in fronto-parietal and in posterior brain regions, ascribing vividness to biological differences from one person to the next. For most of us, aphantasia is a congenital condition, but others develop it following a brain injury. A study by the psychologists Rebecca Keogh and Joel Pearson at the University of New South Wales in Sydney showed that unaffected persons have more activity in the prefrontal cortex of the brain in comparison to those with aphantasia. The condition is estimated to affect 2 per cent of people. Many of us with aphantasia don’t realise that we have this condition. This lack of knowledge is largely rooted in our use of language as a substitute. When told to ‘imagine a beach’, we assume that it merely means to imagine the concept of a beach. When told to ‘count sheep’ while falling asleep, we don’t realise that people can actually see sheep jumping over a fence. Note that most people with aphantasia are still able to dream with visual imagery. Yet I also experience darkness while I sleep. I dream in words, ideas, feelings and verbal knowledge of circumstances. Once I discovered my aphantasia, I proceeded to tell friends and family about my condition. When I described my darkness, people were utterly shocked. My experience seemed alien to them, and some reported that their capacity for visualising was a big part of their understanding of life. As much as I had no understanding for an active mind’s eye, they had no understanding of my darkness. I felt saddened, because I am essentially missing out on such a basic human experience. It’s like missing a sense, akin to sight or hearing. Aphantasia presents some difficulties. My ability to recall memories is diminished. I’m unable to visually summon the appearances of people I know and places I’ve been. I forget what my loved ones look like. When I think of this lack, I become scared. I fear that, as I get older, my memories will fade completely, and I’ll be rendered with an informal form of amnesia. It’s vital that I take pictures so that my memory is preserved, and admittedly I don’t do this enough. I do have some sort of memory though. I remember the ‘auras’ or distinctive quality of places I’ve been in, how I felt when in rooms and while outside. Based on these auras, I then remember physical appearances, which I can verbally describe, despite not being able to see them. With people, I remember their auras and how I felt when socialising with them. If you were to ask me what they looked like, I wouldn’t be able to identify minute details, but I can describe their personalities well. I’m also unable to do any sort of guided imagery meditation of the sort typically used to help people relax and become mindful. While most people can close their eyes and imagine reassuring scenes such as waves on a beach, I see utterly nothing. I actually become more anxious, because there is nothing reassuring about being in darkness. Meditation feels pointless to me, because my lack of mental imagery already gives me a clear mind. Even though I write avidly, I struggle with reading books, especially fiction. Much fiction contains florid descriptions of sensory appearances, and my mind is unable to visualise such imagery. I lose track of the story because of these interruptions in the narrative. It’s easier for me to read memoirs, because these are rooted more in personal reflections and emotions that I can relate to. I also like it when a person shares their philosophy on life.