I look at my hands. Slightly callused from words, more words, scribbled in agony or happiness, outbursts or peace, but mostly soft, with pale clear skin stretched over knuckles and veins. My face, clear again, not lined or wrinkled, only dark circles marring the stretch of skin between and over features. Hair still dark and healthy.
Yet my mind aging, everyday sometimes adding years, till I'm old, till I'm ancient, till I talk like a Chinese wise man. Not yet two decades old yet feeling like a withered woman, an old soul who has been around for centuries.
And yet I haven't seen the world.
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