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Beautiful life.

Reading through old me, I am reminded of pictures of myself at 26. And at 36, I think I already miss my youth. Thirty six. It seems so distinguished typed out, like an invitation to something special, in cursive it would be better.
At twenty six, I saw myself, and I mean my face, the same. I stop when I catch my reflection because I don't know who I am. In my head my face is so much younger, fuller, but this woman who looks back at me, I don't know her face. She's strange, and I want to say beautiful, but when she smiles a real smile, her face scrunches up, prune like.
I don't recognize the clothes that come out of the dryer. They belong to someone younger and prettier. Someone much smaller than myself.
After 7 years I thought I had this person I am figured out. I was so fucking wrong.
This is not my beautiful house
This is not my beautiful wife
[Edit] Will I wake up some morning to that dream of sunshine again?

6:34 p.m. - 2012-12-14

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