Unsteady Mirror

 I stare into that mirror and I'm haunted by what stares aback at me.

When did this become who I think I am?

Where is that ambitious miscreant who once thought the world would be their plaything? When life seemed but a blank page to write my own narrative upon?

These grey hairs stand out, more and more coming as each week continues on.

Where did these creases and wrinkles come from? Where has the time gone to pass me into this aged facade of what I once believed? How can that much time have passed?

I remember those days sitting at Cafe Reggio, unnecessarily long hair flipping flippantly with the southern gusts of the Village as I read Kant and drank cappuccini. I remember the scents of halal food trucks wafting through the late afternoons and scribbling n those notebooks I always carried.

I can't remember the last time I carried one of my Moleskines.

My eyes look tired. Bags and lines beneath each that I can't recall. I have to squint to see details now.

Beauty was never a concept I considered. But truth, love, justice, freedom, creativity... 

the tenants of all I ever had faith in.

When did I lose track of them? 

How long has it been since I believed in what I believe?

The hours spent in diatribe with collaborative camaraderie seem like such a distant memory. Days spent in discourse, nights spent in debauchery and all the while the story and narrative was always there. The north star to my starless seascape. I always believed in that guiding force.

When was the last time I sat down at my typewriter? A year, two? Do my fingers even remember how to do this?

I try to find my voice but it is drowned out by the maelstrom of the events of life. I look to those guiding stars and yet I can see nothing but a nebulous haze. Is this the true sinking of the ship I have held onto for so long?

My reflection stares back at me, a sense of sadness and complacency in his eyes. He looks to me as if to say this truth is not absolute. Broken doesn't fit well.

I stare back in defiance. I refuse to settle. Life is a beautiful story that never ends. The only time the chapter comes to a close is when we give up on the narrative.

It is never too late.

It is always the right time.

It is now.

It is.