The last pages of my notebook

Isn't it strange?
Who hasn't confused the moon with a streetlight? Who hasn't felt themselves grow --but careful-- not soar? The changes, but then again, not really.
Another year spent so sincerely.
And are we adding or subtracting? The result is the same, the excuse changes.
Changes of pace, rythm and morality; same stage, new actors (or new costumes?), same curtain raised and drawn at every show. But decay, decay, decay, veins swelling a little more
So hands are bumpier. Everything just bumpier.
The bus ride quite as long. The mirror quite as deformed. Fear and desire--
Same thing. Fear and desire-- the sun doing a different dance in the sky for once. For everything to be just like me but still everything. My orchestra. But still free. Improvisation without this nagging itch of estrangement.
And retracing one's steps? And searching for symmetry, or for quite the opposite? What about it?
Beauty! Beauty! Beauty! That's it.