Staring at the mirror, Nick asked his reflection “What am I doing with my life?”
The man looking back at Nick made no attempt to respond. Nick wasn't expecting a response, he didn't want one, he wanted this stranger to keep quiet. Nick had almost asked the mirror “Where have the years gone?” but he decided it was too much of a loaded question, decided that if the stranger in the mirror were to answer any question it would be that one. The stranger in the mirror was practically begging to answer that question, and just so long as Nick didn't ask, maybe the stranger wouldn't tell.
The stranger's hair was longer than Nick remembered, shaggier too. The scars he could see were more familiar. The right knee still bore the memory of the freshman year 40-Challenge. Nick shook his head as he thought of all those empty or broken bottles of malt liquor, empty or broken and some painted with his blood. A hospital bed was Nick's least favorite place to wake up. He wished he could forget some things this mirror man made him remember.
And yet, the person looking back at Nick had some sweet memories held in those scars too. A mixture of chemicals, whether it was the right mix or the wrong, came flashing to mind when he looked at the scar just left of center on his forehead. He had to look close to see it clearly, to bring back the passion he'd felt that night with his first love when they stole off together from a party and he tripped and fell down some stairs. He could almost feel the blood flowing down his forehead obscuring his vision, but still he saw clearly the slender hand extended to help him back on his feet.
As he leaned in closer he could see wrinkles around his eyes. Wrinkles on the bags under those blue and gray and bloodshot eyes, the bags matched the baggage those eyes had seen him acquire. Nick thought of those scars and wrinkles in the mirror as mile markers on life's road trip. Some acting as a trophy permanently etched onto the surface of his skin, others were a mere barometer of his depravity. Every time he stopped to look in the mirror, Nick had to catch his breath. Every wrinkle or mark on his body had its own story to tell and that story was getting longer every day.
Looking at the stranger in the mirror, Nick wished he could stop and catch his youth. Field it like a major league shortstop, and then instead of throwing it home, he'd just take it home and keep it forever. He'd keep it safe. If he didn't catch it soon, though, he feared he may never. He looked one last time closely into the eyes in the mirror. There was a hint of a darkening storm in those foamy bloodshot orbs, a hint of storms to come, ones that he'd weathered and those constantly swirling inside.
“What am I doing with my life?” Nick asked again. He looked on, waiting for the reply that finally came“The only thing you can: living.”
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