Youth Wanes, Truth Pains

The sight of a child instills us with this sense of nostalgia, an aching to be who we once were. An ache, that forces us to remember to the days when a naive fragility resided within our selves. We are reminded by our desire for such longing when a cold breeze gently slides across our cheeks, bringing us back to when we swung on the swing-set as children. Striving to reach for the sun until it was gone and there was nothing left but the moon. Now we are left, empty with the knowledge of our sins, with numerous scars of our perpetual destruction that we are now able to trace along our soft dusky skin. We are now pained by the reality of truth, whereas before we were able to find happiness from the many lies that enveloped us like a warm fleece blanket.  Unable to accept our lust for a physical elegance and grace that we know we already have. We constantly attempt to conform to the pageant of the world, to the hard fatless bodies of gold hairless predictability.  Purchasing new clothing because it feels good to pretend that we are expensive. The façade mystically disappears, and as we grow old it unveils slowly before our very eyes, and we understand, that the world hosts no market of honest transactions. The only honesty that it may be composed of is the belief in the wonder that things will take care of themselves. We must withhold our presence from the planning taking place before us, and allow the world to show us what integer we are that fits in its formulaic sphere rather than attempting, fairly unintelligibly, to do it on our own.