It is in these moments that she wishes the eyes could turn away, and, upon casting their gaze elsewhere, forget. Once the eyes had unseen, she would be happy yet again. The placations she had dedicated her life to would be forgotten and the scars of her maladjustment would evaporate. The eyes would be welcome once more when she no longer felt the sting of memories. To be seen as a newborn would be wonderful in her opinion.
To be pure and contented.
To be sedate and introverted.
Yet the eyes do not turn away, nor do they blink. And as she looks quizzically past, she can only see dilated pupils. Her folly of a dream can only survive as a whispered prayer.
Blogging inspired by "Fresh Pair of Eyes," by Brooke Waggoner
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