Sometimes when I look in the mirror trying to count how many lines have been drawn in my face over time. I analyze my facial anatomy as a detective who reconstructs the perfect puzzle pieces. My fingers caress the bags that have formed under my eyes or the chin it starts to fall driven by the weight of gravity below the limits of my jaw. Eighty-two years of life have left their mark visible on my face. a Each wrinkle is a remnant of that past is still present in my memory. Lines perfect balance of challenging the best trapeze. a have formed many folds on my face and so many lines on my skin that I would be impossible to quantify.

And yet, when I see this face in the mirror mature. . . I look at my youth. a watch my hands.

. . My skin keeps within it the unconscious memory of past taste. It is an instinctive memory that drives me back. to Save me the tattoo of an indescribable aroma: it is the love felt in touch. I still remember how I felt when I took her hand to my husband for the first time or trachea joy experienced when I took my daughter in her arms to reach this world. That is a recipe for eternal youth: feel the love from very close. a When I read the pages of this old diary I feel that each of the pages have become scrolls. Every inch of paper contains within it traces of moisture and heat. Hana Some words are blurred and yet, I know every sentence of this book by heart. Amid the language of the shadows. Because I am the protagonist of this living will. The physical deterioration of this book reflects the same deterioration that manifests my face. Every tear that I shed my eyes when I was writing it down on paper and every smile I expressed in words after a dream come true was captured in this little treasure, myself. a I have eighty-two years, four months and seven days. When you reach a certain age of life is counted by hours, minutes and seconds.

For me, the years have turned into days and each morning I wake up to light is a miracle I have left my body clock time. Weather in this light that bathes me their green color of hope. It is perfect as a mathematical equation that while most, one day rest also to all the past days. It is the youth of someone who wants to live because I feel young inside and out. Because my beauty is no longer a thin girl and perfect figure but now I meet in my body the charm of an old lady who transmits serenity and peace to those around me. My youth is manifested in my rebellion, so I do not accept anyone calling me old. Books are old, junk, any pileup. . . but people are young until the day we die. a We are young as we wish to live. a’m young because I have future projects, I have desire to beat and I’m happy. Maybe my future and not that of someone who makes plans in two years. Now my future is my present and I look after every minute of my watch as if it were your last. a degree in philosophy.