.a written note.

Sitting here, I wonder if it's about seeing in the mirror and liking what I see. 'Your eyes speak', they say. With every look of myself I get everytime I see, they, my eyes, seem to want to confront me. With all my honesty, I say, I run away from them. I try to. But the next time, everytime, it's a sensation of their coming toward me more hurriedly. They must be knowing the truth behind all the lies under the Sun I may have happened to tell myself in order to keep going. It's what I am used to do. To keep going, not knowing how far but far still. I am not used to the comfort there is in stopping for a moment or two. The comfort doesn't comfort me enough, although the view of it I get is inviting and tempting. I do not like the idea of walking the carpet that could take me somewhere I may be told I could dream. It doesn't completely satisfy me, being somewhere for a long time where there is everything I like. Going somewhere for a while where they may

Its like a glass half filled with satisfaction. Despite the feeling of loss I'm reminded by the smallest, sometimes nonexistent of things, of the path I no longer walk. The pebbles along the way must have stuck where I'd last seen 'em for they're still there, blurry, but visible despite my standing on the edge here, very much away. Time flies, they say. It should've had taken us, the slaves of it along as it flew. But we are, somehow, still where we'd been. Still there enough to pretend the time is our companion and that we'd never do it injustice. Of cheating it and ourselves. This is now a new path I walk. Getting used to it will soon make it old. I'll again step out of the way. And I'll continue looking back at the pebbles I believe I own at this moment. I look in the mirror more often lately. And I like what I see. I'm growing up. The clothes I wear have a different scent than before. In fact, they do  have a scent over them. I open the