A Blur of Reflection


My eyes point outwards,
and so
I don't look at myself very often.
I see myself briefly in the reflection of a mirror in the morning,
or perhaps in the evening, while getting ready to attend some social soiree.

Or sometimes I catch myself passing by in a car window
or trapped inside a friend's photograph.
But even then I don't really SEE myself.


In the morning, I scan through the mirror,
look at the different bits and pieces individually,
fix whatever mistakes I deem fixable,
and move along.


But every now and then,
I glance in the mirror,
and my vision suddenly sharpens to a needle.


And as if time whispers past my ear,
I notice just how much I've been aging.

And it is always a surprise.

It's as if I watch my own decay
through short bursts of clarity and acceptance.

I don't decipher the slow, meticulous effects of aging
on a day to day basis.
I see everything with sudden epiphanies
like a blast of sand to the brick.


It is a strange thing to be human
and so grossly aware of your own decline
but with such limited attention
in which to process it.


It is happening now.
It is happening right now. 


And it is a very intense thing to witness.