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Beautiful things are better with age.
A sunset becomes more illuminated the longer it lasts; it’s true
A wine, which is fine, tastes richer as it waits to tantalize the lips
Flowers go from tiny seed to blooms eliciting smiles when they are mature, but only then
Don’t even get me started on cheese…
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Books who have sat perched high upon a shelf, brimming with stories and people and ideas unveil themselves, reveal their mystery the fifth, no hundredth time your eyes travel across the page soaking up the meaning imbedded in the words- old books are treasures
But people… they are magic.
With age, they shine. Within them lies all the gold they will ever need. If you look closely you are able to discern the glow just under the surface of the lines mapping their history, their worry, their hopes. Dreams reside in the heart though, and only enhance a person’s beauty.
Our time here is spent gathering, collecting and cultivating the bits of resplendence, all we can laden ourselves with, until it spills out in our conversations, our laughter and takes flight in our tears.
Witnessing this, one realizes that the truest form of beauty is not pulchritude, but the brightness that can only come from age, radiating from deep inside- those coals fed by knowledge and wisdom of years made from weeks and days stacked upon one another…
And beautiful things are only made better with age.
