Mirror on the Wall
The man looks back at me, mirroring my every movement. He eventually stops, eyes resting upon mine. There are bags underneath, reflecting a sense of desperation, restlessness even. The two day stubble adds to the weathered look.
I look old, I thought to myself. And then smiled.
I feel old.
The eyes searches themselves. Dark brown. Black? Maybe that's just me. Or perhaps it's the new frames, my first new pair in almost seven years. Longetivity has always been a feature of mine, for better or for worse.
For better or for worse. Sounds like a wedding vow.
A vow with myself.
I kinda hate that.
I trail my fingers along my jaw, feeling the small stubs of my beard standing firm. I feel even older.
I smile to myself again. I do that a lot these days, a daily indulgence that masks over the rawness that I feel overwhelmed with. Not necessarily a bad thing, mind. Don't get the wrong idea.
A lot of people get that these days. The wrong idea. But at the same time, perhaps they're digging at something deeper, something far more substantial than dark brown eyes, new pairs of glasses or two-day old stubbles.
Maybe they're getting the right idea.
Just in the wrong way.