The mirror shows the changes I have been slow to realize. I find my eyes darkened around their lower edge, the puffiness apparent, the wrinkles etching deeper than I can remember. I see it in my hands as well, the dryness, thin lines creasing the fleshy bit between thumb and forefinger, a redness at the knuckles and a paleness of the smoother plains.
I'm getting older.
It may be that my schedule has something to do with it. Averaging six hours of sleep a night, spending long hours focused solely on work, and finding less and less time doing anything that has to do with recreation, entertainment, or travel, I find myself fatigued. Sleep calls to me often, the morning comes too quickly and blank hours in the day while Shea sleeps find me lying down, closing my eyes, beckoning the oblivion of sleep.
Day is a demanding space; its responsibilities are apparent in the light; its schedules defined as the edge of shadow where the morning sun breaks through the gap in the curtains; it lets me know that I should rise again; rise and look in the mirror; take a look at the toll of another morning; realize the obligations that have run through my head like a dream since the moment I laid my head down on the pillow the night before.
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