Many people say that I have pretty eyes. Like it’s a simple thing, like beauty is only what lives on the surface.

They tell me how they sparkle, how they shift in the light, changing shades like they’re playing a game- grey to brilliant blue, soft to storm- as if my eyes were made only for wonder.

But if they looked closer, not just at them, but into them, they might hesitate before calling them pretty.

Because these eyes have carried too much.

They have held onto moments that should have slipped away, scenes that replay in quiet hours when the world finally softens its noise.

There are things reflected here that no light can soften, memories that cling to the edges no matter how brightly I try to look forward.

If they knew what lived behind the color, behind the shine, the weight of it, the quiet ache of remembering, they might choose a different word.

Not pretty.

Maybe heavy. Maybe tired. Maybe something closer to the truth.

Because eyes don’t just sparkle; they witness. They absorb. They remember.

And mine… mine have seen things I would trade anything to forget.

Still, they look at me and smile, captivated by the way the light dances; never realizing that what they’re admiring isn’t just beauty... but survival.

It’s crazy, isn’t it? How much a pair of eyes can hold without ever speaking a word.

You can see the storms someone survived, the nights they didn’t sleep, the moments they wish would fade but never quite do.

Eyes don’t know how to lie very well, even if the rest of the body does. They flicker, hesitate, soften when something hurts, harden when something broke them. You can catch glimpses of laughter still hiding in the corners, or sadness that lingers no matter how wide the smile is.

It’s like looking through a window that was never meant to be opened, but somehow, for a second, you’re let inside.

And in that moment, you don’t just see a person; you see their story.

Time.

Time is a funny thing. A beautiful thing. A scary thing. It wears a thousand faces, yet it doesn't appear as any of them.

Time is consistent. Faithful. It walks with you, is always by your side. Time is friends with the sun and the moon.

It never stops or slows down. Never waits for you to catch your breath.

It's also controlling. Whether you notice it or not, it is controlling you.

Everything you do revolves around time. What time you have to work, what time you have to go to school, what time you go to bed and wake up, what time you have a meeting.

Your life basically becomes an endless series of numbers. Repeating over and over and over. 7:00, 12:30, 5:45.

Did you know that "What time is it?" is the most frequently asked question? We ask it like, if we know the answer, we will gain control.

But we won't. Time isn't something that is controlled; time only controls.

Time is evil. Once it has you in its grasp, it will never let you go.

Time is sneaky. It can slip by you, unnoticed. Blink and hours will have flown by. Blink again, and something you loved has become something you miss.

That's the trick of time. Time doesn't need to rush to take something from you. It just keeps going. Steady.

Darkness.

Darkness is a peculiar thing. People fear it, avoid it, curse it. Yet somehow, everyone eventually becomes familiar with it.

Ask different people to define darkness. They will all tell you something different. Some will say it comes when the sun goes down, or the light goes out. That kind of darkness is simple. Explainable. Definable. Safe.

Others will say it's what clouds your mind, your heart, your body when someone has given up. This darkness is unstable. Harmful. Unescapable. Scary.

The kind you don’t notice at first.

It's patient. It doesn't kick down doors or announce its arrival. It slips quietly through the cracks. Through grief, loneliness, regret, fear, depression, stress, anxiety, sickness. Until one day you wake up and realize that it has consumed you and made a home within you.

And the worst part about it is... You grow used to it. Its presence. It becomes a comfort, in a way.

It asks nothing from you. No pretending. No smiling until your cheeks ache. No exhausting attempts to convince the world that you are okay.

You don't have to lie to the darkness, or hide anything from it. You are allowed to unravel.

But then it begins to whisper. This is when it becomes dangerous.

It tells you that no one understands. No one sees you. You're too broken, too far gone, too tired to be saved.

And if you listen long enough, those whispers begin to sound like your own thoughts.

That's how darkness traps people; not with force, but with familiarity.

It wraps around your shoulders like an old coat or a shawl. It's heavy, yet strangely difficult to remove.

Darkness changes how you see things. It can turn hope into something distant; something small and flickering.

Joy feels temporary, and pain feels permanent.

Time is different, too.

Minutes stretch into hours, nights bleed endlessly into mornings, and the world begins to feel muted, as though life itself has lowered its voice.

Perhaps the strangest thing about darkness, however, is its ability to teach you things that light never could.

It teaches you how strong a person can become when they have no choice but to keep going. It teaches you the value of even the smallest light: a hand reaching out, a quiet laugh, a reason to stay one more day.

Because stars, after all, cannot be seen without darkness.

And maybe, just maybe, that is the cruel beauty of it.

Darkness can consume people, yes, but it can also reveal them.

Who they are; what they fear; what they survive.

And sometimes, when someone has spent long enough wandering through the dark, the light they eventually find means far more than it ever did before.

A phrase that I have heard my entire life was, "Wisdom comes with age." I would like to challenge that with a phrase I heard recently: "Wisdom comes with experience." I believe this is a more accurate phrase than the former.

Wisdom is not bought with money, nor with age. It's acquired through mistakes, broken hearts, words wished they could be taken back, and long nights wondering what you could have done differently. A person could be very old, but not be very wise, just because they didn't get enough experience.

Wisdom is also different than knowledge.

Knowledge is easy to gather. It's stacked in bookshelves, hung on the walls in classrooms, and woven into the words on the internet.

Knowledge tells you what's true. Wisdom tells you what matters.

Knowledge tells you that fire burns. Wisdom is the scar on your hand that tells you not to touch it again.

Knowledge tells you how to win an argument. Wisdom is knowing that not every argument is worth winning. The wisest people are rarely the loudest.

Wisdom listens more than it answers. Because it knows that behind every opinion, there's a story; behind every outburst, there's a wound; behind every choice, there's a reason. Even the ones we don't understand.

Wisdom teaches patience in a world addicted to urgency; humility in a world obsessed with being right; grace in a world that's constantly keeping score.

Even then, it never pretends to know everything.

In fact, the wiser a person becomes, the more they realize how much remains a mystery. Because wisdom is not the certainty that you have all the answers.

It's the peace of asking better questions; it's choosing peace when pride would be easier; It is admitting, "I was wrong", and discovering that those three simple words can build more than they ever destroy.

Wisdom does not make life painless. It cannot erase regret, undo loss, or stop time.

But it gives suffering a purpose.

It turns failures into teachers, heartbreak into compassion, and scars into quiet reminders that survival can become understanding.

Perhaps wisdom was never meant to make us smarter. Perhaps it was meant to make us gentler.

For in the end, the wisest soul is not the one who knows the most, but the one who has learned how to love, how to forgive, and how to keep growing, even after life has taught its hardest lessons.