Once, my friend said to me: “When I read your writings I can’t help but laugh, because I feel like you’ve been through a lot, but when I look at you I see that you are still so young, you’re as young as a flower.”
That term made me think; how do we measure if someone is as young as a flower, or as old as thorns?
Is it through those flipping pages of a calendar, and through the years that are running past us like an hourglass that lost its rhythm? Or is our age determined by the number of battles we have undertaken with the unknown? By the number of wins or the number of our defeats? Is it measured by the moments of joy that passed by our souls and we barely paid attention to, or by the amount of sadness that invaded us like a skilled warrior; leaving nothing behind?
There are a million ways to measure our age, but regardless of that, I am sure that I have surpassed the age of being a flower. Since I left my country, I have become as old as thorns.