At this age, my face feels more honest somehow.
It shows the mark of emotion, the expressions that pass across and melt away, as momentary seasons would. Only gradually as sentient trees, they have whittled in, water droplets on rock and moss forming on stone and speak the truth of my smile, my frown, my worries, my laugh.
Even my eyes, there is a different light to them now, different insight, different knowledge, some gorgeous, some beautiful, some pain-filled and difficult to bear.
With times blade on me, I will show you who I truly am and how I have lived.