I’ve lived in this small town all my life—where the main street has only two cafes, the fields stretch as far as the eye can see, and the closest museum is two hours away by bus. For years, I thought the world was just what I could touch and see: the sound of my neighbor’s rooster in the morning, the way the wheat turns gold at sunset, the smell of my mom’s apple pie baking in the kitchen. Then I got my computer, and suddenly, I had a third eye—one that let me look beyond the town limits, beyond the fields, into places I’d only heard about in stories.
It started with the photos. I was 18, working at the town’s grocery store, when a customer mentioned a website full of travel pictures. That night, I sat down at my computer, typed in the address, and gasped. There were photos of the Great Barrier Reef—fish as bright as rainbows, coral that looked like flowers blooming under the sea. I scrolled for hours: the Eiffel Tower lit up at night, its lights twinkling like stars; the Taj Mahal, white and shiny against a blue sky; the streets of Tokyo, busy with people and neon signs. I’d never seen anything like it. Before that, “the ocean” was just a word I’d read in books—but on that screen, I could almost feel the salt in the air, almost hear the waves crashing. That computer didn’t just show me pictures; it let me feel like I was there, even if I was just sitting in my small bedroom.
Then it became a window to learn. I’ve always loved plants—growing tomatoes in our backyard, identifying wildflowers in the fields—but I never knew much about exotic ones. One day, I typed “rare plants from the Amazon” into the computer, and soon I was reading about giant water lilies that could hold a child, about orchids that looked like birds. I watched videos of scientists talking about how they study these plants, about how important they are to the planet. I even joined an online group for plant lovers—people from Brazil, from Australia, from places I couldn’t point to on a map. They’d share photos of their gardens, answer my questions, tell me stories about the plants in their hometowns. For the first time, I wasn’t just talking to people from my town—I was talking to the world. Once, a woman from South Africa sent me a photo of a protea flower, its petals thick and pink like velvet. She wrote, “This grows in the mountains near my home. It reminds me of how beautiful nature is, no matter where you are.” That message stuck with me. My computer didn’t just teach me about plants; it taught me that we’re all connected, even if we’re miles apart.
It also let me share my own world, too. I started taking photos of my town—the old oak tree in the square, the way the fog sits on the fields in the morning, my mom’s garden full of tomatoes—and posting them online. People from all over commented: “Your town looks so peaceful,” “I wish I could walk through those fields,” “Your mom’s tomatoes look delicious!” A girl from Canada even said my photos made her want to visit small towns someday. Before, I thought my town was too “ordinary” to matter—but through my computer, I saw that the little things I took for granted were special to someone else. That third eye didn’t just let me see the world; it let the world see me.
Now, I still live in my small town. I still work at the grocery store, still grow tomatoes in the backyard. But my world is bigger now—because of that computer. When I miss the ocean, I pull up photos of the Great Barrier Reef. When I want to learn something new, I watch a video about plants or stars or distant cities. When I want to talk to someone who gets my love for nature, I message my online friends. It’s not the same as being there, of course—but it’s enough to make me feel like I’m part of something bigger.
Sometimes, I’ll sit and stare at the computer screen, and I’ll think about how lucky I am. Before, my eyes could only see so far—but now, with this third eye, I can see the whole world. It’s not a fancy computer—its screen is a little cracked, its keyboard sticks sometimes—but it’s the most precious thing I own. It’s the reason I know there’s more to life than the fields and the main street. It’s the reason I dream of traveling someday, of seeing those places I’ve only watched on a screen.
My computer isn’t just a machine. It’s my third eye—the one that opened my heart to the world, and showed me that no matter how small your town is, your world can be as big as you want it to be.