The Eyes Don’t Lie, 9-10, p. 1

        The first thing I notice about somebody is their eyes. Just by looking, I can tell what's behind them. Wrinkled and blue, worn by his years at Auschwitz. Small and brown, waiting to experience the world. Out of curiosity, I asked my friends what they see when they look into my eyes. I got some pretty strange responses like "a coral reef in Key West" or " roasted pecan candy." Others say they can see my personality: strong and beautiful. 

        When I glanced at my reflection in a store window as I passed by, I didn't see a coral reef or pecan candy. I just saw me.
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        Sometimes I wonder what blind people see. It seems like a silly question, but I always find myself dwelling on it. Do they see people, objects and colors the way others do? But then, how could they know what the world looks like? Or do they see a room of ebony, engulfed in a room of darkness?

        Sometimes I wonder, when it looks like they're staring into nowhere, if they're actually looking at me. 
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Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
If I like your eyes
Then I like you.
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        Glittering in bold hues of blue, purple, gold, and every other color imaginable, my media lays out in front of me. An array of brushes help guide my work, sweeping, shading, and blending colors onto eyes. Glints of hope in my victim's eye, waiting for me to complete my masterpiece. My brush dances on her lid. Every look is a work of art waiting to be shown to the world. I adore living in a world where drawing on eyes is acceptable. 
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      The Eyes Don’t Lie, 9-10, p. 2
      
      I love going to my grandparents' house. I love the food and attention, but the best part is the photo albums. Digital photos have pretty much taken over the world, but there is something so satisfying about flipping through those worn, glossy pages. There must be 15, all filled with memories. The first ones hold my grandparents: young and passionate. Then come the many albums of my dad. Having an only child, my grandparents liked to capture every moment and milestone of his life. There are pictures of a piggy-cheeked toddler in hotels, and 
shirtless, teenage beach pics in which he looked strikingly similar to Nick Jonas. There's an album dedicated to my father's bar mitzvah, and one for my parents' wedding. All of those are fun to see, but I really love to see the pictures of me. That really sounds self-centered, but I don't mean looking at current pictures. I'm obsessed with looking at my childhood pictures. I thrill over seeing my gleaming eyes and long hair that curled up at the ends ever-so-slightly. I get a kick out of seeing my ridiculously cute bangs and dimple and the overall smallness of me. If I could go back to those happier times, I would.
 
I see all that joy in my eyes.