Spots of color illuminating the face, all different yet the same. Blue, green, gray, brown. They all have the same effect on me. Each has a face and a memory with them, and they tell me more than the one looking out of them could want me to know or can ever convey. It's like I'm spying on that face without permission. I feel bad looking into eyes sometimes; the light brown ones that are always exited or eager, or the warm blue ones of my mother. The dark brown ones, those, always moving; thoughts or feelings, I'm not sure, flit behind them. They're mysterious but familiar at the same time. And then there are my eyes. They change colors. Some days they're more blue or green or gray. They have no set color. There's nothing familiar about them except that they change and they're mine. They see the world and live in it. My thoughts and feelings flash through them like windows, always open. Always questioning, or responding after being questioned. I love how eyes can take in everything and miss so much at the same time, or how they can pull emotions out as easily as pulling a tissue out of its box. These splashes of colorful portrayal steal my attention every day, and bring life into focus. Our eyes help take in the beautiful world, and help me show the world everything I've seen.
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Blood on White Roses' Journal
So yeah, it's my journal. Hooray. Never thought I'd get around to making one but I guess I finally did. I'll probably put some poems or song lyrics I made up in here, rant some possibly, ramble. Definitly ramble. I do that a lot... and umm yeah that'
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Blood on White Roses
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