Worst days always start with the mirror.
Not with the sunrise.
You look at that wrapping in front of you
and realize you might have spent too much time inside,
like a forgotten Christmas present never opened.
When I grow up, I want to be...
That's the very first time the be starts to
fail. That want-to-be is when the be is
fading away.
How many of us ever wanted to be what
we already were?
There comes a time when you can no longer
be anything but you. Unable to be.
Just a child whose parents are long gone.
With countless bruises and worn clothes. Despised.
You no longer smell like chamomile.
Chamomile smells like you.
You are an ugly child now. You've grown up, they say.
You can handle it.
You lost the virtuosity of a restless tantrum.
You can no longer marvel
at beauty;
you are only allowed to witness it.
What more terrible punishment is there
for the guilt of being a child other than
the mirror?