The old man was proud of his wrinkles. He would have been so even if it hadn't been his philosophy to make the most of what he had. To him, his wrinkled and pitted face was not a hindrance, not a thing to be ashamed of, but a record of his life. He wore his past like a map on his face, a map that all could see and follow. Each line marked a moment, of happiness or sadness, joy or worry. Each line was a sentence, on a face that could be read like a book. The crinkles at the corners of the mouth, the light in those eyes, remnants of a long ago youth, when the fire in his blood had burned bright and strong, chasing him away from his childhood haunts and responding to the siren call of faraway lands, people and places. That fire had driven him recklessly through life, motoring him down long and winding paths, barely heeding the damage it suffered, and caused. His travels could be seen on his face, his hurt, pain, and anger read in the depths of those bottomless eyes, that truly were, in his case, a window to the soul. But, nonetheless, he was proud of his face. And he was proud of his life.
Few are able to claim as much.
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