If the pressure of physically looking good is removed from our lives, would we still make the same choices? Can we make a serious attempt to see the journey of our lives in our wrinkles and make peace with them? Will it ever be possible to cherish these lines and give them the credit that they deserve? Surely, each of these lines has a story to tell. Can we objectively associate these wrinkles with emotional manifestations that could have been responsible for their birth? Can we treat these wrinkles as a photo album of our past?
They embrace tightly, my tired face
Caressing gently, like never-ending vines
Cropping from every nook and corner
They hold me together, safe in their twines.
They seem to be actually, quite fond of me
But I ignore them, like a forbidden curse
And when they tell me, to smile at life
I am worried, that it will make them worse.
They reach to me with an aching soul
With teary eyes and broken heart
It’s me who gave them life, they say
It’s me who’s now tearing them apart.
They beg me to look, in the pit of the pile
Of my present, and of the past I had lived
They say I’ll find the knots of their world
Clinging to the threads, of the quilt I had weaved.
I looked deep down and saw some of them
Wiping away my tears as I cried
Some were holding the reins of my anger
And some were cheering in my moments of pride.
Some were etched, from my smiles and my laughter
Some took birth like my babies, from labour pain
And some gave me company, as I waited for my children
To return home safely, as I always worried in vain.
Wherever I went, in the lanes of my history
I saw their nurturing hands with myself
These lines that I had so abandoned in the past
Were the lines that I had created myself.
These wrinkles and marks that cover my body
Are telling my stories of glory and pain
They deserve to be cherished like precious trophies
Instead I demeaned their existence in shame.