These are my eyes, little glass orbs. Look into them and see not your future, but my past. Look into the darkness, the hardship, the pain. Find the hurt through all that mist, that fog. Pass all the barriers and traps to honestly see the deception, the mistrust, the brokenness that's been felt.
Then look past those eyes and see the reflection of yourself. You, inside me, see your tousled hair that's never brushed, that worried frown on your face that seems to cry, and those own eyes. Find yourself through me, let my eyes show you your eyes.
Come closer, please, you'll have to. Don't be shy, for I shall be looking at myself in your eyes. I'll see my own perfect hair, my grimace that seems to shout silence, and my scars. Those scars, the ones not from any fight, but my own confrontations surfacing. Acne, facial hair, blackheads, all those ugly things coming out and yelling out how the mind is tired and ill. It's not pretty when I see myself, but is it pretty when you see yourself?
Is there beauty? Everyone has beauty, surely. Others see mine, I see yours, do you see any of it? It hides from you, but it spreads itself out for me. Sprawled over my eyes, it's a lense I see through that makes everything so... so vulnerable. It's infected my mind, nearly, nearly. Don't let it infect yours. I love you the way you are.
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Beauty. A subjective object more prominent in our lives than perhaps thought possible.
But we rarely think about things like that. As if they could be odd, accept accept accept our changeless lives.
Surely the universe has no flaws of character.
Surely, it expands, collapses, dances, all without care.
Surely... surely, surely it does.
Or perhaps I simply want it to.
We are all infections. Infections are our making and our gift. Independent thought in social groupings.
/rant
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