I often fail to recognize my own face in the mirror. The greying strands of hair, the sagging skin beneath the ears-do not feel mine! Although, the one that flashes before my very eyes as I touch my veinous fingers -is none other than my own reflection. Through the lackluster countenance, it screams out loud that those are nothing, some mere footfalls of time, nothing but a plead to rekindle. There is this poem by Shel Silverstein titled Loser. It says-
Said the little boy, ‘Sometimes I drop my spoon.’
Said the old man, ‘I do that too.’
The little boy whispered, ‘I wet my pants.’
‘I do that too,’ laughed the little old man.
Said the little boy, ‘I often cry.’
The old man nodded, ‘So do I.’
‘But worst of all,’ said the boy, ‘it seems
Grown-ups don’t pay attention to me.’
And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.
‘I know what you mean,’ said the little old man.
