Trans iris
The ubiquitous smile. Return service is obligatory. It is contagious, a virus of gratitude. It is walking invitation, a reprieve from your own mind's inventions.
In some ways, it is a deception; manipulative nostalgia. The smile's owner convinces you of their constant state of ease, with their crinkly-eyed fondness. It highlights the joys and ignores the solemness.
But behind that smile hide years lived, lessons taken. Behind it lie tragedy, heartbreak, vulnerability. The outward joy that the smile projects is draining. It wears on the smile's handler. Its recipient is filled with sorrow; How can I help? How can I help fix your woes? You should know your own joy. You should know it for yourself.
The fight to maintain the magic of their eyes, their smile. He grows old and weary. He begins to lose the fight.
Sometimes he scans the air for some hidden answer. It scares you. You don't want the smile to disappear.
And so you stay. You tell yourself you alone can preserve the smile, keep it the way you want it: radiant with joy. But you are just being selfish. You want to keep it for yourself. You are selfish and you hate to lose the things you love.
The smile lingers in your subconscious. It is always awaiting; always challenging you, always asking of you. You begin to behave according to it; I want to see those crinkly eyes suddenly turn misty again. I want to feel proud.
You turn primal. The smile is mine. Those eyes will only crinkle when they see me. You turn bitter. You become jealous whenever the eyes turn away from you. I was first. That look is mine. You begin to hate the smile.
And then one day, the smile vanishes. It's gone, faded from existence, its owner departed.
And you are left devasted, for your source of pride is gone. And you realize that you are alone. Searching, wandering, and alone.
The still wink. Eyes awake, determined, confident. Eyes that at once command and ask. They drive you blind, insane. They make you beg, plead. They fill you with self-doubt.
What are they saying? What truth lies behind them?
Surely, there is brilliance. Maybe there is even an attraction. But couldn’t it also be mere apathy? A natural tackiness onto the hearts and thoughts of others. Thoughts, insecurities.
There is hurt in those eyes. A deeply charming, human insecurity. It can only be the result of some unbespoken tragedy.
How are you? Like, how are you really? What happened to you? I want to know. I want to help. Let me help you heal you.
Stubbornness. Determination. 'Independence'; I know how to heal myself. I know why I hurt. I'll do the fixing—and the hurting, too.
Those sharp eyes will always be their own, which is what makes them so lovely; so sad.
Mischief. Irreplicable mischief; the face of a young boy mirrored onto a grown man. He himself is not aware of the mirage on his face, yet it is there. It is always there, for better or worse. It always entertains. It always destroys.
Why can't you control yourself? Why won't you just behave?
Why should I?
The face's lack of sobriety makes you envious. You ask yourself, Why can't I have so much fun? Why do I always behave? You could learn from their constant chaos; those eyes that exude fun and break hearts.
But you know the look cannot be sustained. You know that one day it will harm itself. Or worse: self-implode. Disappear forever.
Such a face cannot be entirely born out of circumstance; chaos exudes chaos. Mischief cannot be borne from purely innocent origins. To be mischief is to be wholly independent, free from the external pressures brought on by parents with tall expectations.
His life is spasmodic, a fire with limited oxygen. The mischief explodes when fuel is abundant. All suffer and are elated by it, he included. Fun and tragedy and chaos abound.
As always occurs, the fuel runs out. The mischief goes into hibernation. And all that are left are the embers of a once-thriving mass.
But inside, the spark is still alive. Fuel is all that is needed for that fiery mischief to rage again.
Artwork by artsydivya and dedfishy94 (DeviantArt)
