I’m not sure how, and I’m not sure when, but at some point along the line…patience came to sit in my cupped hands like some old friend I’ve never met. And I can hold this soft glow in my hands and I can feel.
Everything I know is wrong.
Let it be.
And for the record, I’m a grown ass woman and I can handle the truth. I actually can handle the truth. Whatever it may be.
I think a lot of my intentions have been misunderstood.
The only thing I know for certain is that everything is changing.
I think wrinkles are beautiful. I’m embracing this strange experience called ageing. I’m starting to love these tiny little proofs of all my smiles and laughter. These little nuances appearing on all of our faces, all together. We’re all doing it all together. Like everything else we’ve done. Let’s all carry them like badges of honor, shall we? I love watching them grow on people I’ve known for a long time, especially. Like little bits of ourselves are getting tattoed into each other. All of the smiles and worries. All of our stories, etching onto our faces. To prove we’re real. To make us real. We’ve really been doing it, this living thing. We’ve been surviving. We’ve been loving. And we’ve been letting our stories grow out all over our skin.