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this darkness... — Description

I have darkness in my eyes that has nowhere else to go.
Yes, I see you.
I do.
This darkness does not ruin my vision; what’s more, I see much more clearly with it.
This darkness does not pass onto you when I look at you.
It doesn’t stain your eyes, for it is not an ink.
It doesn’t pierce you, but if you make my blood boil, it just might do so.
This darkness doesn’t hurt you, but it could, don't doubt it.
I choose for it not to pain anyone but me.
You say I have melancholy in my eyes, and I tell you that they just might be a fraction of the star that was born at the very moment of the creation of melancholy.
Some eyes just have that shade of blue that the darkness of the world turns grey over time.
Mine were the brightest shade of blue, like the sky when I was a child.
And over time, things happened...events I cannot name, time passed...
You ask me what happened to me, and I can only reply with:
The world happened to me.
There was a point in time when my eyes were green, very similar to the eyes of the man who raised me.
That was my favorite shade.
But as I said, that changed, quickly, and my mind no longer remembers the exact shade.
It chose to forget, and I blame it every day for it.
Now my eyes are dark, you say.
They're grey.
Explain this phenomenon to me.
Is it the aging that causes this...radical change?
Or is it simply the fact that my eyes have cried out all the blue that they ever possessed and all of the green that was only a fleeting presence?
I see clearly, I told you.
I see you and this world.
Everything.
And when I look at my eyes in the mirror, I see how much darkness they have absorbed over time.
Now, how exactly do I explain to you that it is not darkness that paints them grey, but the sadness that has nowhere else to go?
The mirror to my soul.
So much more than a color.
A complexity I no longer try to explain to those who don't even see what's right in front of their noses.
They call it melancholy, and I nod.
They ask why, and I just smile.
It's not like they'd understand.
How could they, when they haven't seen the things I have?
And I am not mad.
I can't expect them to understand what I only understood just a little while ago, when I looked at my eyes and saw them turn black.
Now this ink matches the color of my eyes.
And I do find it poetical, in a way.
I am a writer, after all.
Perhaps that is why it all had to be the way it was, for this darkness to seep into my system and make something out of me.
Something melancholic, you'd say; something of a writer, I'd say.
And for that cause, it was worth it, if you ask me.
I.L.
@Iviwrites