Today flew by. The fastest, most mundane, least record-worthy day in living memory. My living memory, obviously.
I wish it had stayed that way.

But now, I feel myself back into the old, stomach-churning, unfamiliar yet strangely known, rhythm of hating myself for my idiocy. Why? Same old same old. You do it to yourself. Grief-causing brewer of torment and negativity than I am.

I've never liked speaking in specifics. It feels too much like a record for posterity. Not that I'll ever have any progeny. So, I have become entrenched in the wound I have caused. Someone else's blood and tears--you do it to yourself-- the signals of my own grief. Breaking friendships--broke another mirror--without even breaking a sweat. Turning into something you are not.

I've broken so many mirrors.

"Can this saviour be for real, or are you just my seventh seal?"