Do you gaze upon a mountain range and judge its wrinkles and crow’s feet? Do you behold an ancient tree, its branches twisted and knotted, and desire it to be more youthful? Do you witness a canyon, once a prehistoric sea, and long for its etches to be smoothed? Do you reckon a night sky, constellated by immortal stars, and wish away the wisdom of their aeons?
So, how then, when you gaze in a mirror — upon skin carved deep by years of laughter; upon eyes that twinkle with mystery; upon hands which have nurtured and loved; upon lips which have tasted the sweetness of desire; upon veined hands which have caressed the velvet petals of a rose; upon grayed hair which has been perfumed by season after season of fragrant breezes — how then can you gaze upon these things and think “they are not enough”?
Do not wish the tree which stands assured with years, nor the mountain made noble by time, be smoothed and firmed, tightened and toned, nipped and tucked.
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