You

I'm sorry. 
It's not you I'm talking to.
It's the you you've always wanted to be.

Have you ever wondered: Where did the words you'd written in your diary ages ago come from? Where are the pages that have now turned yellow with time, waiting for the touch of your skin? And where are the questions you forgot to ask as a child?

Have you ever wondered?

The answer's there, right there. With you. In you.

In the thoughts you can no longer put into words, for your heart's in the woods, in the songs of the traveler, who has no care in the world.
In the clouds that thunder with the light of your soul that blinds your eyes, turns your skin damp and cold.
In the mirror you keep looking into, hating what you see. Thinking that that is all you'll ever be. 

But that, my friend, is the answer. 

You are that traveler, singing under the leafless tree, still full of life but with scars that won't heal. 
You are the cloud that rains with melancholy in the sky, roaring with the sins of the days that wait to be forgotten. 

And that is what you look at, when you look into the mirror. 
You look, but, what you got to do is see. You are who you wished to be.