A phosphene is a phenomenon characterized by the experience of seeing light without light actually entering the eye. The word phosphene comes from the Greek words phos (light) and phainein (to show). Phosphenes that are induced by movement or sound are often associated with optic neuritis.
Phosphenes can be directly induced by mechanical, electrical, or magnetic stimulation of the retina or visual cortex as well as by random firing of cells in the visual system. Phosphenes have also been reported by meditators (commonly called nimitta), people who go for long periods without visual stimulation (also known as the prisoner's cinema), or those who are using psychedelic drugs.
The most common phosphenes are pressure phosphenes, caused by rubbing the closed eyes. They have been known since antiquity, and described by the Greeks. The pressure mechanically stimulates the cells of the retina. Experiences include a darkening of the visual field that moves against the rubbing, a diffuse colored patch that also moves against the rubbing, a scintillating and ever-changing and deforming light grid with occasional dark spots (like a crumpling fly-spotted flyscreen), and a sparse field of intense blue points of light. Pressure phosphenes can persist briefly after the rubbing stops and the eyes are opened, allowing the phosphenes to be seen on the visual scene. Hermann von Helmholtz and others have published drawings of their pressure phosphenes. One example of a pressure phosphene is demonstrated by gently pressing the side of one's eye and observing a colored ring of light on the opposite side, as detailed by Isaac Newton.
Rejoice, for tonight it is a world that we bury!
Have you beheld the darkness sitting upon the earth
Overshadowing the wind rose, lost in the smoke?
Thus many went astray at once
The others wandered hazardously through endless mazes
The rays of the sun whisper of a newborn fright
And very few horrors in the world could match in terror
The cruelty of that frozen caress and it's fragrant secret in blossom
Thy bend their tongues with a long drawn sigh
Licking among the vilest ordure a few drops of hopeful water
They bend their tongues for this divine balm
Remains of an aborted covenant gone astray in desert waste
The bleak sterility of these buds belies their fragrance
A pestilence that permeates the vastest plains with frightful odours
Among these foetid marshes wanes the echo of a promise
Hope stumbles amidst the solitary shades and lose substance
Facing the glowing darkness whilst ravens croak for doom
The other worlds on high sent us a harbinger
Ignis ardéns – He breathed on them
And they were all filled with the Holy Ghost.
Assailli par les myriades fourmillantes des phosphenes célestes