He hated this about his eyes. They gave away everything. All that he was hiding. Shattering all his plans to keep things hidden. The insecurities and the pain. But what bothered him the most was that all the little fortitude he tried to exhibit, especially its pretence, was all revealed. The moment someone came and looked straight into his eyes the truth came to the surface. Floating. Conspicuous like a star’s image on a sea’s surface in the dark. At times even more beautiful than the star itself. Transforming its incongruities and deformities into a grandeur. Nights and stars, he is now convinced, are objects for the good times.
And he loved this about his heart. It still hoped. And it reinstated everything soon after the eyes have given them away. As if pumping hope is also a biological function of the heart. He adored his heart for its tremendous control over his brain. How despite all his education and knowledge his heart still let him hope that things will fall into place albeit by irrational means. His heart was the day and one doesn’t learn much by looking at the stars during the day. If there are any stars during the day. He needed days. His family needed days. And the Sun. Their own shadows would make for the company. He needed company. But not people’s. People brought questions he didn’t have answers to and advises he didn’t have time to heed to. And so he craved shadows and the assurance of their meek company would be assuaging.
And he demanded light. Lots of light.