Looking into that dusty mirror again.
Me looking at me.
Going inward, spiraling toward the deep dark me that lives in those places of quiet I only share with myself.
Introspection has begun as the calendar moves closer to the day that defines everything and nothing.
Assessment of accomplishment inventory was completed weeks ago, success being less of a factor to rate the experience of life thus far.
Quality and quantity of love is off the charts, embarassingly high marks pervade this area. I never feel unloved.
Health quotient could be better, but I can’t seem to stay away from the food and drink and trouble that provide infinite comfort and unbridled happiness.
Friendships are limited, but rare and fine like a good vintage or a beautifully cut diamond. I don’t speak often to my closest friends, but they are in my heart and head on a daily basis. I carry them with me.
Family relationships are plentiful and good. My home is one of those hub places where all will always be welcome and special days are anytime we get together.
Passion is an unyielding flame in me. I don’t know how not to have passion about anything that defines me and what/whom I love.
My heart has tears and welts from hurts and bruises amassed along the way, but for every wound there has been a complementary heal that promotes the beat of this necessary emotional muscle.
I have been voluntarily, romantically linked to someone for over half of my life, redefining the virtue of my selfishness and forcing me to look at things from a mostly us perspective. Everything changed after her.
I am matter and energy and vibrancy and despondency and emotion and words (many words) tightly wrapped into one ball of a flawed human interacting with a species that I will forever struggle to understand.
But it’s all good, all that I can control and all that I can contribute to in this existence is in check.
The reflection in this mirror is the only me I know.
And he is more than I ever expected to see staring back at me at this stage of the game.