I am aging.
My skin betrays me.
I am not naive enough to fall in love anymore.
Life is a thousand little heart breaking defeats, punctuated by bits of goodness and light.
You must keep your head up, though your shoulders pull it down with the weight they carry.
The freedom of the coming year shall be unlike any I will enjoy until the day I retire. Should this make me happy or sad? Already, time and opportunities slip, slide and skitter past my outstretched hands. Can I grasp enough of the goodness, enough of the light to create something I can be proud to call my own?
They say that life is in the journey, but in the end, what use is a journey unless you reach the destination?
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