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Were I to sit here and "psychoanalyze" (an almost entirely inaccurate term for this, by the way. Don't let your psychology be limited to Freud.) the style with which I choose to render myself, I would likely draw some sort of metaphor about light that casts a shadow, or the light that burns so brightly it scorches the features from my body. I struggle to see myself as a fully realized person lately, feeling as if I am in the midst of a metamorphosis wherein I am losing my humanity and becoming nothing more than an image burned into the wall behind me. Or, if we didn't want to take the psychological route: I think it looks neat and I can't draw the other eye.
Were it not for a thorough look through your history, I would not ask such a thing. Perhaps you are upon a cave wall, perhaps you are reduced and diminished in the face of your transformed darling, perhaps you are that which remains once the bomb goes off. Or perhaps you grant wishes. No matter your reasoning my dear, your quill and your brush both shed light upon your personage, as well as delight the senses and higher faculties. For these myriads of reasons, I find myself willing to turn a blind eye.
1 th1nk 1t looks neat too 1mo youve got a cool th1ng go1ng on. do whatever you want l1ke whos gonna stop you