I think of your wrinkles as battle scars—ones you gained from the struggles of living.

I think of them as the imprints of your every smile, the traces of your every frown, the remains of every pain that was ever etched on your face. They were born from all your happiness, all your sadness, all your wonders, all the anger and agony you have accumulated over years.

I think of them as the memoirs of your victories, but also the reminders of your losses.

Every line is a part of your character, a marking of what you have achieved in life. Behind each of your wrinkle is a story engraved, ones that only you have the ability tell—to share to the world or to keep to yourself is a decision only you can make.

As much as I think that youth is beautiful—I think your wrinkles are just as so.

In a world that demands perfection, perhaps age is seen as something shameful—maybe the creases of your skin only cause people to remember their own vulnerabilities.

I don’t blame the people who want to hide their scars, but I love people who wear them with pride—because in the end, they are parts of the true you that only time can create.

After randomly admiring Leadernim's wrinkles.