A Walking, Talking Museum

I am a fan of seeing my face age. Seeing what wear and tear I accumulate with time. It is like looking at a restaurant you’ve frequented for years; seeing a torn booth, dingier floors, and worn, wooden tables. Sometimes when I look in the mirror I remember what younger me felt. I can see my past existing in my bright eyes, and my present through my tired eyes. The way I smile or furrow my brow is slowly becoming permanent fossils on my ever aging face. Maybe, I should sleep more to improve the circles forming under my eyes, or maybe, it’s life’s way of telling me things just keep moving. Whatever it is, yes, I am in here, and have been been here for quite some time.

I am the weeping sky.

I fell asleep feeling like a weeping, dreary, heavy baby to have my feelings mirrored by the greyest of skies. Blue is the sadness a pubescent, optimistic teenager has in their eyes while grey is the color of the dust that stays on your body you can’t shake off because of life’s weighted wisdom.