The Privilege of Eyes
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“The eyes are the windows to the soul.”
I’ve never believed in a quote as much as I believe in this one.
Of our five senses—touch, sight, hearing, taste, smell—nothing feels as intimate as sight. You can learn so much about a stranger just by looking into their eyes: the same eyes that saw the world for the first time, and will see it for the last.
No matter how much you hide your emotions, your eyes will always reveal them.
When you’re sad, you feel your eyes fill. Even when you hold back, they redden. When you smile, the skin around your eyes crinkles. Your eyes betray you in the most honest way—they confess before your mouth ever does.
I once read that Inuit people believe spirits meet each other through a glance, and I think that is one of the most human concepts I’ve ever heard. It only makes sense. After all, your life and your death are in your eyes. A short glance can mean one spirit seeing another—understanding another.
Your eyes are both young and old—wise and naïve. No sight is more serene than the eyes. When you focus on the sea of color surrounding the pit of the soul, it’s like a sunset: the blue sky orbiting that one drop of sunshine. We don’t remember everything we see, but they do. Every sight changes them, reshapes them—enlightens them.
Enlightens us.
We close our eyes to cherish moments we believe are too short—to savor touch and taste, to savor the world. Maybe we’re afraid that if we open our eyes, it will be gone, and we’ll be met again with the outside world. With reality. When we close our eyes, we look inward—into our own homes, our thoughts and prayers.
That’s why, when we sleep, we dream.
Dreaming is a sixth sense, and I will always believe in that. It’s instinct—your subconscious spilling its thoughts into a world you can’t control. When I was eight years old, I had a spelling bee coming up, and I dreamt I was floating above the stage, with a crown following me around. I saw my name on that big, beautiful screen.
The next day, I won first place. I remember bawling my eyes out while the principal recorded me.
Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published“Why are you crying?”Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published“I thought I’d never win!”Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published“But you did, Judy. Congratulations!”
We dream in instincts—subconscious feelings and emotions. And when we’re scared, we have nightmares. When we do, it’s our subconscious warning us, trying to keep us safe. Trying to keep us within what’s familiar. In dreams, we see without sight—guided only by what we feel.
Some people see with their eyes. Others see with what they’ve lived through.
And then I met someone whose eyes couldn’t see—yet whose soul did.
My uncle was a deeply religious person, and a spiritual man. He lost most of his vision when he was twelve years old, and ever since then, he needed constant assistance.
When he met me for the first time, I remember his hands shaping my face, imagining how I looked. I was too young to understand, and it felt strange—almost uncomfortable.
But now that I’m older, I understand everything. And I hope he pictured me as a hopeful, kind little girl.
Even though he was blind, he’d look straight at you—or where he’d believe “you” were. Not once did he brag about being blind. Not ever.
“Judy, you’re a kind girl, so I’ll tell you this. I hate when people pity me. I hate it so much. One time, I was in the pharmacy to pick up my daughter’s medicine and the line was long. I knew because I bumped into someone in the line, but when they turned around they let me cut in line. But I didn’t.”
His hand wrapped around his cone of ice cream while I held mine, the ice cream melting onto his fingers.
“Why? I’d cut that line so fast, it wouldn’t make sense if I didn’t.”
He laughed in that deep voice, his head falling back.
“Judy, it isn’t about cutting in line. It’s about the fact that people treat you differently because you can’t do things that other people can.”
“I thought treating disabled people differently was a good thing, like having a ramp for them and giving them special treatment.”
“No, Judy. I mean it’s great and all, having accessible ways for people but treating them differently is just another thing. It makes us feel inhuman.”
He was blind, yet he saw more than anyone I knew.
I barely saw him, though. He was always travelling—for surgeons, doctors, and anyone who could save him. Anyone who could save him from his kidney disease.
Doctors gave him advice. Most of the time, he didn’t listen.
He often visited to spend time with my father, and whenever he came around, I saw them laughing together. He was the complete opposite of my father’s strict persona—easygoing, youthful, a man who lived to break rules.
He lived his life.
I remember asking him, “How are you so happy? You’re blind. Isn’t that enough to make life unbearable?”
And instead of scolding me, he calmly replied:
“Judy, life isn’t about mourning what you don’t have. It’s about appreciating what you do have. I appreciate my wife, my kids, and I appreciate seeing colors instead of not seeing anything at all. Everything I see is blurred—yes. But I still catch a glimpse of the sun.”
I was too much of a kid to fully understand what he said, but I never forgot his words. Ever. I believe the people who carry the greatest burdens are sometimes the ones who appreciate the little things most.
It was safe to say he loved life—the little things. He loved eating ice cream on the beach. He loved sitting with his kids while the television played, even when he didn’t know what was on. He loved living.
But then it caught up to him.
A doctor told him his kidney was failing, and that he needed a donor.
I thought he’d get one—that he’d have the surgery, and life would continue. Just like in the movies.
But his final days were coming. His daughter and wife were arguing, and he began crying before saying, “Is this how it’s going to be after I die?”
After that, everyone cried. They held him, comforted him, promised him he’d get a donor soon enough.
He died on a Thursday, early in the morning. I was walking home from school when my mom told me the news.
At first, I didn’t feel anything. I didn’t know the man closely, so why would I? That’s what I told myself.
My cousins came over a year later, and I caught his eldest daughter crying in her room. I never asked her what was wrong. I never told her that I knew why.
Tears were pouring, and the only thing I did was hug her.
We both knew.
And I think that was the moment it hit me—the realization that he was really gone.
Three years after his death, I still cry. Especially on Thursdays.
Even during his kidney failure, he kept eating junk food because it was one of the only ways he still felt connected to his family—one of the only times he felt normal.
I think he knew he was going to die, whether or not he got a donor.
I like to think he died peacefully, knowing what was happening. The same way I’d like to die.
It sounds like him.
I wonder if he’s watching over us—over me—seeing me write this. And if he is, I want to say: I’m sorry.
I’m sorry I didn’t see you more when you came over. I’m sorry I underestimated your presence. I’m sorry I didn’t call. I’m sorry the last time you heard from me was seven years ago—long before any of this happened.
He never yelled at anyone, never hit his kids, and he was always so calm.
One time, he and his family were at the beach before a windstorm hit. His kids panicked, grabbing their things, but he was still lying down.
Yes, he felt the strong gust of wind, and he knew he should get up. But he was so calm that he didn’t bother.
And yet, for a blind person, he touched everyone’s heart through a glance.
Including mine.
my last piece was about how money becomes powerful not because it has inherent meaning, but because people collectively agree to treat it as sacred. it explored how something as fragile as paper can be transformed into authority through fear and enforcement, and how that authority quietly shapes every part of life—work, identity, rest, stability—long before people realize they are organizing themselves around it.
writing it meant sitting with the idea that money is less a tool than a system of leverage, one that turns survival into participation and teaches people to measure their worth through productivity. the goal wasn’t to argue that money is evil, but to examine what happens when it stops being a means and becomes a measure, and how easily people internalize that logic until they begin policing themselves from the inside.
my last piece of writing. ˚‧ ɞ
Judy Moreau
I’m trying to build a small space on the internet where things are sincere and human. if you’d like to be a part of it, there’s a subscribe button below. ♡
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