If eyes really are the windows to the soul, then in mine would be an old swing hanging from a tree in the middle of a deserted meadow, surrounded by huge forest beside the biggest and most beautiful waterfall. And on pretty autumn days, a girl my age would swing back and forth, back and forth.
If eyes really are the windows to the soul, then in mine would be a library six stories tall filled with books I’ve read and hope to read. Books, and scrolls, and history, and poems, and plays, and myths to fill my mind.
If eyes really are the windows to the soul, then in mine would stand a young girl, never wishing or wanting to grow up, hoping on every star that Neverland was real and that flying was possible.
If eyes really are the windows to the soul, then in mine would stand a wonderland parallel to this world, where everything was as it seems and people were genuine and true.
If eyes really are the windows to the soul, then all of my secrets, good and bad, would tumble out every time I blinked, leaving me vulnerable and open.
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