I saw you at the bus stop, waiting. Your eyes were the only crack in your disguise—small pools of emptiness surrounded by perfection. I’m sure it took you some time, to put on that mask. I’m sure if you could have, you would have covered your eyes with it as well. If I wasn’t a stranger, then I’d love to ask, what do you do it for? Who do you do it for?
I wonder who you’re going to see. I wonder if they’ll see you, in return. Will they see your eyes? Or will they only look at the perfection painted on your face? Maybe that’s what you want. Maybe that’s why you keep putting on makeup until none of your actual skin is visible, until your eyes are the only part of your real face left exposed.
Exposed. That’s an awful word, isn’t it? But eyes are like windows—while you look out, others can look in. If they care to, they can look right past the perfection and see the person. And what will they see? That’s harder to say, and harder to control. It’s definitely a lot harder to cover than skin. All I know is that when I saw your eyes, there was a sadness in them that caught me by surprise, and it made me sad, too.
I wish I could fix it for you, really, I do. I’d rather see your makeup a disaster and your eyes sparkling then the other way around. If I could reach you somehow, I would love to share the words Jesus shared when he sat down at a well with another woman who had sad eyes like yours, and he saw her eyes and told her gently that he could give her something more satisfying than the well water she was drawing or the men she was chasing. He offered her “living water,” and told her that “whoever drinks the water I give them will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give them will become in them a spring of water welling up to eternal life.”
There really is a sparkling fountain of life that is deep enough for your sadness and pure enough to satisfy you, forever. I hope you find him. I hope you drink deeply and your eyes fill up so full that they outshine your perfect face.