Galaxies
Galaxies eyes stories
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origami
origamifear leads to anxiety
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Galaxies

by origami

If you look at a pair of eyes

the pupil eats away at any light that may shine on it. This is merely because the pupil is a dense hole in the center of the eye that absorbs any available light that may shine on it.

This is merely because the pupil is a dense hole in the center of the eye that absorbs any available light that shines through the retina

In a similar sense,

an eye is like a black hole that devours anything of substance

Black holes are places in space where gravity is so strong that not even light can escape. They are one of the strangest and most mysterious phenomenons in the universe.

But so are eyes. It’s easy to think that black holes are the eyes of the universe.

It’s hard to imagine that some light years away,

there is just a black hole sitting there in space; just some old exploded star that collapsed and is now absorbing any fragment of light or matter that reaches into its grasps

I sometimes wonder if I am just a star that hopelessly collapsed into an empty void.

Or if I am just waiting for the moment that I can explode

into a galaxy filled with a million little specs of dust and clutter everywhere, and the living beings inside me search for a sense of purpose behind this utterly useless pile of stardust.

Meanwhile

these brown eyes that I have absorb every fragment of emotion into the pupil of my eye. Nothing is seen through this rich dot in my brown orb.

55% of the world’s population has brown eyes because they are caused by a dominant genetic trait.

And for the longest period of time

I wished that my eyes were anything but what they actually are.

I wear glasses.

It’s peculiar to me how glasses signify intelligence rather than broken eyes. I didn’t feel this way when I got my glasses. I hated them.

They didn’t mean intelligence

but instead signified an ugly duckling, a laughingstock, and worst of all, a set of broken eyes. I remember crying when I first found out I had to get glasses.

Black holes are like this.

They are supposed to be the epitome of mystery and silence, but in all reality, black holes are nothing more than the decay and death of an old worn down star.

It can’t change its state of constant consumption.

For the longest time I didn’t want to have brown eyes

They were anything but romantic. My eyes were just brown -- boring, old brown.

They would never be compared to the stars or to the ocean.

They were just boring, old brown. I can’t change that, but I don’t mind; colored contacts aren’t as comfortable as one may think

His eyes may be blue

and have the depth of the ocean and hers may be a combination of all things beautiful, and every poem may be written about them. Mine will never be that acclaimed.

but my boring brown eyes are an anchor that can't drift away

They are the amber, gold, and obsidian that shines in even the dimmest of light. My eyes hold the depth of a black hole, an intense mystery.

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