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Description
My friend wrote this based on my eyes:
Canvas Eyes

In the second grade, the teacher made us all go up to the front of the room and she recorded our eye colors. My eyes were brown but some of the other kids had hazel eyes, green eyes, blue eyes, one girl even had a green eye and a hazel eye. I never saw the point of this though. It was just a color to represent us, a title. It held no bearing on how we saw our world. Whether you saw the people first, or the trees, or neither at all.

There’s this girl I know. Her eyes are green, but that doesn’t matter at all. Because she has canvas eyes, and that’s how she sees. When an image hits her eye the objects form their own paint. The trees, strokes of emerald and auburn that tower upward while dabs of scarlet splotch the tips of fruity branches. The sky, with its ever-vigilant sultry sun, shines down rays of gold on landscapes of cyan, on landscapes of life. All of which artfully bends and curves its way to her eyes where it finds its canvas. To fall upon.

Descending into her mind where she feasts on the supple fruits of nature’s beauty and delight. Here the image finds a newfound appreciation. Marvelous sunsets, glistening mountain tops, booming forests, breezy beaches. Things that you and I might toss aside, and let float past.

When I see, I take in only the information I need to know. Faces to remember, crucial locations, significant numbers. Maybe that’s what it means to have brown eyes.

I wish I had green eyes.

Description
My friend wrote this based on my eyes:
Canvas Eyes

In the second grade, the teacher made us all go up to the front of the room and she recorded our eye colors. My eyes were brown but some of the other kids had hazel eyes, green eyes, blue eyes, one girl even had a green eye and a hazel eye. I never saw the point of this though. It was just a color to represent us, a title. It held no bearing on how we saw our world. Whether you saw the people first, or the trees, or neither at all.

There’s this girl I know. Her eyes are green, but that doesn’t matter at all. Because she has canvas eyes, and that’s how she sees. When an image hits her eye the objects form their own paint. The trees, strokes of emerald and auburn that tower upward while dabs of scarlet splotch the tips of fruity branches. The sky, with its ever-vigilant sultry sun, shines down rays of gold on landscapes of cyan, on landscapes of life. All of which artfully bends and curves its way to her eyes where it finds its canvas. To fall upon.

Descending into her mind where she feasts on the supple fruits of nature’s beauty and delight. Here the image finds a newfound appreciation. Marvelous sunsets, glistening mountain tops, booming forests, breezy beaches. Things that you and I might toss aside, and let float past.

When I see, I take in only the information I need to know. Faces to remember, crucial locations, significant numbers. Maybe that’s what it means to have brown eyes.

I wish I had green eyes.