"Things aren't always as they appear to be," he whispers, staring into my eyes. Blue. That is the color of yours. Mine are brown. Rimmed with gold, flecked with green. Uninteresting, ordinary. Or so I've always told myself.
"We see what we want to see." The words spill through my lips unheeded, falling broken onto the ground.
"What do we want to see?"
"Beauty," I say. "We all want to see beauty." My throat is thick. How can someone with eyes open that wide be so blind?
"How to we recognize beauty when we see it?"
"I just told you. We see what we want to see. But sometimes we have to train ourselves to see past what we can see - to see, or at least realize, and understand the things that aren't visible to the eye."
Silence. He stares at me; eyes wide, searching. Searching, but never finding. Looking, but never seeing.
At least, until now.
"I see you," he says finally. His voice is soft, like fingers hesitating over flower petals, like the wind caressing leafy branches.
"Do you? And what do you see?"
returning to fictional writing, appreciating spontaneity, enjoying simplicity, diving deeper, seeking meaning. || xx