Eyes
—
Speak
1
The eyes are not simply organs; they are archivists. They record every joy, every wound, every fleeting thought that passes through us. A spark of laughter lives in their corners, just as a shadow of grief can linger in their depths. Happiness stretches them wide, sadness softens their focus. Excitement quickens their movement, boredom slows them to a languid drift. Lust sharpens them to a point, while anger clouds them with heat. Without speaking a word, they tell the truth our mouths may never dare to shape.
2
They are the windows through which others read us — an unspoken script etched in light and shadow. A glance across a crowded room can be an invitation or a warning. Eyes narrow in calculation, widen in surprise, lower in submission, or hold steady in defiance. Those who know how to read them can see the thoughts forming before they cross the threshold of speech. In this way, our eyes make us both vulnerable and powerful; they are the keys we hand to strangers without realizing it.
3
Beyond emotion, the eyes are our instruments for gathering the world. They collect fragments — patterns in stone, colours in sky, the trembling of leaves before rain—and feed them to the mind. This data becomes memory, becomes inspiration, becomes the raw material for the paths we
carve. The artist paints what the eye has stored, the architect draws from shapes first noticed in shadow. Every creation begins as a moment the eyes refused to forget.
4
Through them, we witness the wonders of this world—both the fragile perfection of nature and the audacious achievements of humankind. A sunrise that bleeds into the ocean. A cathedral rising like a frozen hymn. The fragile petal of a wildflower bending toward light. Yet in the same frame, the eyes are forced to confront destruction: forests reduced to smoke, cities swallowed in war, beauty undone by human hands. They carry both awe and ache, the duality of existence etched into their lens.
5
With every glance, we judge, decide, and plot our next move. The eyes weigh trust and danger, opportunity and risk, the known and the unknown. They are our compass, our constant witnesses, our silent narrators. And when they close—whether in rest, in longing, or in finality—the story they’ve gathered remains, imprinted somewhere deeper than vision, guiding the soul along paths the eyes first dared to see.