It’s a surreal process to watch oneself age. I no longer see any youth on my face. I’m not troubled or concerned, simply fascinated and confused. Maturity has settled on me with a heavy and sudden stroke of severity. Growing older, moving away, coming back, starting over – the roads and airstrips, and train tracks I’ve wandered along have traced lines across the earth, fine lines settling around my eyes and wrinkling at the corners of my mouth. I have seen new people and places, spoken new languages and sung many songs.
My cheekbones and chin have sharpened while my skin sags. I’ve fully settled into my thirty years and it’s etched into my face with little dark spots and visible exhaustion. Grey hairs grow wildly, with the energy I used to have at twenty-three. The shine of wide-eyed idealism has flickered, dimmed, and faded from my eyes. I no longer look earnest and enthralled with the exhilaration of existence. Well, as a melancholy and an old soul, perhaps I never really did. But I never used to look this old.