I'm halfway done with my decades-long journey, today. I look down and see calloused hands that belong to a middle-aged man. If I were a younger boy, would I recognize them?
A slightly faded tattoo and heavily-veined arms lead to scarred and broken shoulders. I watch myself in the mirror, and see deepened lines of maturity carved into the hollow sweeps of my cheeks.
I feel tired, but still ahead of the curve.
Is that the sensation of delusion and obsolescence? Years are just arbitrary loops of time that don't mean anything.
Sometimes, I think I'm still younger than a lot of young men, who aren't as old as me.
Sometimes, I just want to sleep for a very long time.
Despite the day, I'm not feeling very inspired this life.
4:23 p.m. - 2016-02-10
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