I look in the mirror and only see myself, but my true self. I feel alive, only 25. Or perhaps 65. Somewhere in between. The energy of youth is still hidden in the reflecting pond, but the wisdom of life continues to age me. I grasp tightly to the roses, only to be pricked by the thorns. I have caged the bird, but only a feather remains. What makes this life? Is there such a thing as true freedom? I write. I don't write. I write. In the mean time, the cob webs form in every corner of the room, and perhaps in my mind as well. But without cob webs, there is no spider, and the spider weaves the webs. The spider creates. The spider can not be caged.
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