It hangs over me every day.
When I'm working I am conscious of every passing moment, literally right down to the second. Increments are tracked by countless, faceless monitoring staff, and my job is on the line, dependent on meeting timed goals, timed commitments, and timed conversations.
It's no surprise that I don't wear a watch on my off-time.
You can't tell it in the extreme close-up, but time is etching lines, deeper, more boldly across my face. I've got a striking frownline in the centre of my forehead, gained by giving the evil eye to many, earned by thinking way too deeply. I've got smaller pucker lines, produced not by one too many kisses, but by hauling in on cancer-causing substances, voluntarily.
I colour my hair over with bold blacks, brassy reds and pale blonde hues. No one would guess that my real hair by now might be an equal 50/50 of dark brown and white. I'm not too vain about it; I do enjoy mixing it up, but a different person would point out that I'm hiding my age, ashamed at what time is doing to a body, soul and mind.
My firm convictions have slowly erroded, leaving me with endless questions about religion, morality, and politics. I'm open to anything, only because time has proven that there is no one way. I close the door when pressed firmly about choosing sides. There's no war to win. There's nothing to gain that way but more pain.
Just today, I saw someone.
I stopped.
I froze.
I don't recognize myself sometimes.
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