Old soul crying by the ocean. If I could make myself look how I feel…what then? I’d be old, yet reborn; I would be mysterious. Right now trust is meeting the struggle, and I’m finally content again. For the moment. I love the old souls; the fighting ones. It’s hard for me to let go of the few that I’ve found.

The strong of will, body, and heart attract me. Let me be strong too, but be stronger. Be weathered, and splintered beach wood, and I will embrace the art. The old and time-worn ones have been cut to the core. Only their truth remains. They’ll climb a mountain, laugh at the sea, and fight for what they believe in. Right or not, they are strong, though not always honest - hiding under tough exteriors.

I sing of, long for, and love their kind. There’s the challenge to see if they’ll let me in; there’s camaraderie as we wonder together at the merciless souls, and the beautiful wilderness. We look at our generation, and don’t know whether to laugh or cry at their youth and stupidity. We may be youths, but what we’ve found goes deeper.

Old soul crying by the ocean. I am like you. Let me be your friend.