The twenties blur, a hazy, distant shore, the thirties rushed, demanding evermore.
I trace the lines etched lightly near my eyes, each crinkle whispers of forgotten skies, of laughter shared and tears that softly fell, of youthful dreams I knew and knew so well.
The present hums, a different melody, a quieter strength, a calmer clarity. The frantic pace has eased, a steadier beat, the garden grown, the harvest bittersweet.
I look around at what I've built and hold, the stories etched in silver and in gold. The faces loved, the hands that intertwine, a tapestry of moments, truly mine.
But future paths still lie in shadowed mist, uncertain steps on a horizon kissed with questions whispered on the evening breeze, of what will bloom among the aging trees.
Will wisdom deepen, will new joys ignite? Or will the fading of the day bring night? No crystal ball reveals what lies ahead, just present breath and thoughts within my head.
So forty-three arrives, a gentle pause, between what was and what the future draws. I stand here now, with memories as a guide, and step ahead, where new tomorrows hide.
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