Dear Diary,
It's that time of year ... I'm 15, snow is on the ground, there is no one left but the two of us. I like to think I've moved past it, I tell myself I'm over you. But on this day at this time I always remember two things: the guitar solo that rings in my ears and how blue your eyes looked in the moonlight.
Dear Diary,
I hate my face. Not all of the time, mind you. There are some days when I pass a shop window and I stare at my reflection and say, "not half bad." But usually I hate my face. Never more than when I am lonely. On those days, I don't see a face, only flaws. I see eyes that are generic and too far apart, a nose that is entirely too wide, a mouth that is too narrow to be sexy but too pouty to be masculine. It is a face that a mother can love, but no one else, at least not at first glance. One has to get to know this face first. Most of the time, I can look past the nose; I can forgive the ears, the stubby chin and the acne scars. I can even forget about the thick bushy eyebrows. The one feature that I cannot forgive nature or my parents for, however, is the eyes.
It's all about the eyes. They are everything. The most expressive part of a human, a mirror for the soul, the most beautiful and terrifying and fascinating feature of the body. Eyes are what won my mother the Miss Missouri crown; eyes are what always let my father know if I am lying, or sad. I can make my face a blank slate, but I cannot erase the pain from my eyes. The eyes are an art form. A subject to be studied. Mine, for instance, have always screamed, "You're ordinary!" The color is bland, the generic brown hue shared by most African-Americans. My eyes say, "You are one of many;" my eyes say, "You wear your heart on your sleeve;" my eyes say, "You want someone to love you. You want a place to rest your head. You want someone to blot out the world, to hug you and say that everything is going to be just fine."
I have to work to overcome the reputation put forth by my eyes. I respect them for making me work. My eyes aren't unique because they are blue, or green, or light hazel. If they are special, it is because I have made them so. I dance to make them snap, I act to make them shine, I write to make them glisten with tears, I debate to make them blaze like wildfire. My eyes don't get by on their looks alone. They work for everything they have.
Dear Diary,
Ten to 16 inches of snow ... yeah ... yowsers. In a way, it is good. The snow buries everything ... the stress, the secrets, the heartache of the past three weeks are all blanketed by something serene and beautiful. I am going to take a hot shower, snuggle into bed and read or watch the snow fall. I am emotionally exhausted, and still, all I can think about is the difference between the blue eyes I used to love and the ones I worship now. The ones that used to make my blood run cold, sadly enough, are the ones that haunt my dreams.
I hear people ask all the time, "Are you a boob or a butt man?" I am neither. I am an eye connoisseur. Boobs can be manufactured, and butts can be gained or lost given the correct diet or personal trainer. But the eyes are special. They are the things that cannot be contrived to curse you. I fall in love with eyes. They tell me everything I need to know without saying anything at all. They are my obsession.
Dear Diary,
My day was unusual. I was coming out of Frist after lunch and thought I saw Aaron Taylor and my heart almost stopped. It was not him, but the possibility of it was alarming. Aaron polluting my campus, barging back into my life, spoiling my happiness and my dreams. It has been two years, and the thought of those blue eyes can still make me freeze. Will I ever be over it? Will I be able to lay my head down at night, safe in the knowledge that he is not there to make me cry?
My thoughts and my hopes, my shadows and my demons, my weariness, my loneliness — it's all there, etched into my eyes like writing on a tombstone. The history of the human race, the annals of civilizations built on high and those gone with the wind — the memory of their existence is right there on the human face, behind batting lashes and fluttering lids. The eyes are the human diary.
Dear Diary,
The day has become utterly gorgeous, so why am I sitting in my room with a book all misty-eyed at John Mayer's "Neon?" I know perfectly well why, but that doesn't mean I like it. It's pathetic, really. This is one of my most liberating summers and I am being held back by blond hair of all things, stupid blond hair and a pair of eyes the color of the sea.
Few people ever bother to read the eyes. It is a comfort to know that I can.
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