You

You wear your armor, made of steel and vulnerable dreams. Go for the risk, the Maybe of success rather than the stagnant never.

You're twelve, your teacher tells you to forget about painting. So you spray their face with glitter, hoping for some of it to end up in his iris. Perhaps that way he could see the world a little brighter.

And now you're fifteen and you dress down your soul and up your body with the masks bought from the shopping center. The mask on your face is the latest hit, but it's ill-fitting and makes for a bad cover. Somehow, everyone can spot a faker even in a world where everyone is faking. Take off that mask and throw it out.

It's the edge of the world and you're hesitating, should you jump or huddle in the lap of your mother. You're eighteen and every cell of you wishes for the free air and the warm nest at the same time. You take a deep breath, jasmine and your mother's perfume safe in your lungs, and off the ledge you jump.

And now you're an oak, cracked old and mighty. Your fingertips remember the strings of the violins and your nostrils still swimming in the oily smell of colors. The rings of your trunk tell a story of a life well-lived. And from your branch hangs a little swing, it helps a little kid play while you teach him to dream. And sing the song of life using the patterns of shade and light.