A man’s face is the roadmap of his life. Following the lines that crease his skin and furrow his features, anyone can see the effects of events and situations that he has visited, that he has lived through, endured and enjoyed. They come with time because it takes time to make such trips, such maps. Time drips upon him slowly. He looks at himself in a mirror and then his face, mocked with signposts of his life, becomes his past as he worries about, as he looks forward to his future; and the lines are drawn. Pain and pleasure, resentment and contentment, fear and folly draw the map. It continuously gets drawn and each line and mark is different, they are never the same. The map left on each our faces, and there is one in each moment of our lives that is drawn however subtle, however deep is the map of our future. The young face is like a moon-pie, smooth and devoid of life that has not yet touched it.
Truth changes, foundations falter; importance turns to triviality, happiness and disappointment share the same bed. Life teaches us these things and maps are drawn so we know how to get back in order to have the chance to learn the lessons that living has taught us, however way we choose to live. We many times call these lines the ravages of time but they are really the roadmaps of our faces. Roads that we have taken, that we have chosen with the time that we have, that we think we might still have are all carefully drawn with the knives of each of our decisions.
If we could hover over our own lives we would perhaps see the landscape, some parts cracked and dry and some parts lush and green. Some ways cross, some don’t but there is always room for more until the horizon. Life is a verb, not a noun. Look in a mirror and see where you have been. Look in a mirror and see who you are. Follow the roads you have built and look for new ones to build or wait for what comes.
The map will be drawn regardless of what we do or do not do; regardless of what we choose or do not choose; regardless if we desire it to be, or fight the inevitable: change, the cartographer, is the only consistent. The unknown to the cartographer is nothing more than a blank page awaiting the legend, orientation, neat-line and title; the topography unknown because the landscape is yet to be drawn; places not envisioned or visited. The crow’s feet around the eyes remind us of past perspectives, the wrinkles in the forehead of contemplative comings. The smile lines around the corners of our mouths bring back periods of pleasure, of happiness, of joy.
Bitterness, sadness and anger are all there as well; part of the landscape; islands of ire, flows of frustration, mountains of madness. They too are part of the map and deserve a place, a path-line on the compass. The fear, the doubt, the joy, the love, the bitter and sweet are all there. What will be the next road you draw? What will be the topography of your face; the roadmap of your past?