Dark lashes flutter open. Smooth silky hairs brush against my skin. Inky black eyelashes line the edge of the eye, shadowing my forehead in an unseen darkness. Reds, yellows, oranges, and blues spiral into the center of the eye. The colors create a vortex, pulling light in. There is no pupil, because it does not need one. It absorbs the light and colors of the world without ever seeing them. The eye sits comfortably above my nose, between my eyebrows sinking into the creases in my forehead, seeing the good and the evil, light and dark. It is blind to nothing. The eye weaves its sights and observations into my brain. Layers of color and empathy thrown into the washing machine of my brain.

An old man sitting on a crate and begging for money. His beard is long and scraggly from going years without shaving. He shakes the cup in his hand. Two tall dark men standing out in front of the Dunkin Donuts holding the door open and asking for spare change as I leave with my steaming coffee in hand. My mind’s eye observes all of this and makes the decision to keep walking, ignoring the men who have fallen on hard times.  

The eye blinks open when it senses that tight pulling from the place that lies between my stomach and rib cage. The feeling buries itself deep, using my rib cage as a place to rest and think for a little while. But the second it senses that the eye isn’t telling the truth, it pounds itself against my stomach, shaking my ribs. The eye is reason, whereas the tight pulling is feeling. They balance each other out, working together to give me the best advice about what to do next.

My eye throws empathy at me from every angle, while my gut says keep your head down and keep walking. I pass the old man shivering on the side of the road, his blanket is just a scrap of cloth covering  part of his frail body.  My eye wants me to stop, but my gut says push on. The eye is the thing that lets me see all the good that is in the world.  But no one else can see the eye, including me. It is just there. 

My eye observes a squirrel skittering up a tree, as I walk down the busy road. The eye opens itself up to the warm summer air and baskes in the golden sunlight. The golden rays join the multitude of colors already swirling around in the center of the eye. My mind’s eye is my conscience. Instead of telling my mind what is right and wrong it watches the world as it flies by, around me.

The pounding behind my ribs starts up again as I see a man walking towards me. My eye gazes at the stranger and wonders why he looks so determined in his walk. My gut screams at my mind’s eye to look straight ahead and keep walking. My gut  isn’t perfect, it is quick to react when there is any sense of danger. Most of the time, there is nothing to be afraid of. The eye still folds images of the man into my mind, forcing me to stop and wonder why the annoying ache behind my stomach felt so threatened. More times than not my eye is right about things around me, always wanting to see the good in the world. My gut keeps me safe, while my eye keeps me kind and fair.

The eye closes its paper thin lid and the inky black lashes brush against my forehead. The spiral of colors is safely locked inside the eye. The colors are visible through the almost sheer eyelid. The irritating pounding behind my stomach ebbs, as my gut settles back under  my ribs, finding a spot to rest once again. My eye and gut finally take a much needed rest, as I  relax back into a cushioned chair.