Wreckage

On the way back from work this afternoon, less than five minutes away from my accommodation, I unexpectedly came upon a cute boy, 13 or 14. Why he wasn't in school, I don't know, but it was evidently 'official', because he was with a woman who appeared to be his mother. I looked at him, as is my wont, and he looked back, for a second or two, before quickly turning away. Not that I expected any more interest from him, but once I got indoors, and happened to see my reflection in the mirror, I could easily see why he would have averted his gaze. Looking back at me was an old, tired, unshaven face, wild-haired, given my aversion to haircuts, and looking haggard through insufficient sleep and the pain in my foot, another dose of gout having reared its head in the past 24 hours. I doubt the pain in my psyche helped the impression much, either, the look of a person whose spirit has more or less been broken by all that's happened in the recent past, but also going much further back, to the boy who could never dare to be himself, too afraid of the consequences, of what others would think, who chose instead to hide. But the one person you can never hide from is yourself. And then one day, you look in the mirror, and all that's left is the wreckage of a life, smashed beyond repair.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B