If the eight year old version of me could see me now I know what he would think. First he’d be surprised we made it passed twenty six. Never thought we’d be so old. Next he would be glad we could grow a mustache. He would note that we’re not as tall as we thought we’d be but our voice is a pleasant surprise. Then he would wonder how much we have changed. Do we still think the same? Are we as angry as I am now? Do people ever become more to us, and crucially did we ever fall in love? He would know the answer to the last question. How else would he have made it twenty more years? He would know somewhere along his journey he would have found someone that brought a spark of light into his dark and dreary being. He wouldn’t ask about the cold. He won’t truly feel that for ten more years, though it creeps ever deeper into his hands. Instead he would ask about the apples and if we still ate them. He would wonder if we still played classical music far too loudly in order to drown out the constant ringing. Eight year old me would be impressed by what we’ve accomplished on our own, falsely reassuring him that he’ll be able to make it on his own. I wonder what he would see in my eyes though. And if I could look back into the dead eyes of my eight year old self I wonder what I would see. I have said that I am afraid of mirrors, but truly I am afraid of my eyes. At eight I was told how beautiful they were. At eighteen I was told how beautiful they were. At twenty eight I am told how beautiful they are. There is nothing more chilling than that look in my eyes. I have seen spirits, demons, and angels yet nothing frightens me more than my own eyes. Pious narcissism aside, I think for a brief moment even the eight year old version of me would be happy to see how far we’ve made it.