A Wrinkle in Time

Wrinkles are a record of life. They are a timeline of events and how they were taken. The tears run rivulets down the cheeks. The eyes draw lines out like a seed giving bloom into branches creating a permanent expression. They match the lines around the mouth, a dead give away pressed into a permanent smile or scowl. The forehead folds into a look of deep thought, a look of wisdom. I find it almost unfathomable why you would want to erase them, to return it to its youthful inexperience. The shallow and vain are ashamed they have lived so much life and yet are so little the better for it. Their faux-youth is a disguise, it is an attempt to reconcile their mind to their appearance, to create an excuse for their immaturity. True wisdom and perspective wear wrinkles as an honor and a witness to lessons learned and character forged in the kiln of adversity. Hardship is worn like a scar across the chest of a heart patient, a testament to the ability of the human spirit to overcome and thrive. The rich and vain erase this record, ashamed that they have no right to wear such a badge.