As I watch youth slip from the eyes of my friends and the lines of branches and trees of time began to replace smooth necks revealing life, I ponder my death.
Some temporarily escape this process sleeping soundly at night with no worries of mirrors revealing their secrets having Botox run through their veins paralyzing lines of time playing hide and seek for months, for now.
Faces change. Cheeks become thinner. Eyes yield to experiences and I am absent of any signs due to my inability of yielding to a desire of needing to see.
I’ve lived through many seasons and have a feeling I’ll see more branches break and hear the sounds of old trees being replaced by new ones; however, not sure if living was the right choice. To see the process of age prolongs my death slowly chipping away my desire to hold on to the daily chore of waking up; perhaps a shorter quicker demise might have been more suitable. I have a feeling however, that my mirror will only tolerate my turning a blind eye to her existence for now.
Everyone looks at some point, even Dorian Gray.
I just hope that when my current need yields to my desire to see my reflection, it kills me right away.