Attic essay

I've been told my eyes have the same shape as my mothers, and the same color as my fathers. They are not perfectly symmetric, they are colored with an unexceptional shade of brown. They frequently daze or close all together at inappropriate times.
I've been told that eyes are the windows to your soul; that eyes are a ghost of your past. They have colored the spectrum of my feelings. They have illuminated desperation, distress, deceit, denial, delight, dreams, devotion... They have illustrated memories stemming from ecstasy and sorrow, quickly flooding my eyes in reminisce.
I've been told to cover my eyes during horror movies shielding me from the gore they would otherwise encounter, and preventing nightmares from evading my unconsciousness. I've been told to cover my eyes, unknowingly walking into a gathering of my friends. Uncovering them to be welcomed by a multitude of streamers in all kinds of colors, various smiles, kind eyes, and pairs of arms ready for loving embraces.
I've been told that eyes can depict feelings in a much more eloquent manner than any words could. My eyes will speak when words can't be said, when they cannot be found, when silence is too rigid to break. My eyes will speak when touching looks are the only appropriate comfort to be given.
I do believe that eyes are the widows to your soul. At least in my case, they fully portrayed all the happiness I felt when I finally began to pronounce "tree" instead of "three", when I was able to speak like my peers, when the badgering sign that was given to me as a foreigner began to fade. My eyes exchanged love and support when a close friend suffered an inexplicable loss. My eyes were full of empty stares when worry regarding my sisters mental health overcame me. I've been told that however unexceptional the color of my eyes, they've colored his eyes with love and happiness. That makes them exceptional.