My original face was stone;
Ledge covered in moss.
Wisdom, age, beauty, stability,
My original face was simple and timeless.
It encompassed all there was
And all there would be.
It is not something you can see.
It is a mirage: a gentle, quiet hint of something.
Something powerful, unbreakable, vulnerable and true.
Something that reflects back to us--
Reflects who we truly are,
Not just who we think we appear to be.
My original face does not belong to me alone.
It belongs to you, to your father, to your mother,
To everyone you see on the street.
We take it with us wherever we go.
It's right here. And yet,
We are constantly searching for it.
Seeking. Trying so hard,
Too hard, to understand.
It is that simple;
It is that complicated.
It is visible to everyone, and yet
Difficult to see. It is never away from us,
And yet, somehow we lose it.
Again and again and again.
That original face.
Moss over ledge. Strength and softness.
Beauty. Simplicity. And yet,
There are cracks and crevices.
There are sharp edges.
You have to be careful. Because those edges
Will slice right through you.
The moss is soft as a feather, it's true.
But underneath? Well,
That's a different story altogether.
A story as ancient as time.
A story you already know.
A story that can never be properly told.
No matter how hard we try.