If you were to go to an art museum, flash photography would be and is prohibited. Why? Because it is known to be able to take a toll on the art work. This external stimuli is so powerful, so true, that it can physically alter something. As art can become altered so can one’s eyes. Transforming into a new piece of art as a story unfolds.

This story, however, is not one of fairy wings and princess crowns. This journey is one of true grit and fervor. Just as a caterpillar has to rub its skin raw to become a butterfly, you have to experience passionate emotion to create this change. Our eyes witness every moment of our lives that we can remember. All the pain, the sorrow, the joy, it is our eyes that saw it and thus created the emotion. Whether or not such change is one from good or for good, it is a matter of opinion. For our eyes are blocks of marble and life is the chisel.

When you look at the eyes of a child, you can see this “film” glistening on their eyes. This film does not come from the orifice of animals or the slime of slugs. It is a film of a much more grandeur place. Innocence and purity. This glisten would not be on the eyes of the mother, for she has seen the world at great lengths. Both with sorrow and sanguine. On the other end, there are eyes, so dried up from all the tears, with sockets sunken in, and the thing that catches your attention is the pupil, with the qualities of an abyss. Dark, deep and formed from being worn away. This does not make an eye ugly. It gives it a story.

I have seen these stories in the eyes of those around me. The pure lack of life in my Nana’s eyes when she made the decision to let the love of her life move on into the afterlife. You could see the hollowness consume her, yet now it is merely a part of her beautiful story. The colors so vibrant it was almost unreal when my cousin had her first child. The eyes of this newborn, over pouring with beauty, untouched by life’s chisel. The disparity and anguish in the eyes of someone who has gotten news that their friend has tried to commit an unspeakable act. All these different masterpieces, joined by the knowledge that they all started the same.

Now these eyes have become their own, but they won’t be on display behind pieces of glass, hidden away in a library covered with dust, or watched from the mezzanine as the house lights dim. Eyes are the art that is passed by every day. Many ignoring the craftsmanship and detail. These stories, beautiful ones, are ones only those who can relate will dive into.

This is what I believe.