My left eye is a bit askew. Not much, but certainly not an even set. I think they say that’s the case for most people. Not much true symmetry in the human face. Makes for boring looks.

There are dark circles under those crooked eyes. A bit of a double chin, as well. Matches the mild beer belly. Something I’ll be putting in some effort towards. There was and is effort there, but I think the need be for a bit more. As much as I can muster, then maybe just a bit more.

Because ice cream and beer are wonderful.

And I’m not trying to live forever. Just well enough to be worth the effort.

But, anyway.

I don’t take many pictures of myself. I don’t even particularly enjoy any sort of planned or posed picture. They seem too ingenuine. A stance I believe to the point of avoiding participating in an image in such a manner. Either as the one to capture or as part or whole of what is imaged.

The best pictures, I believe, are the ones taken without anyone in it knowing. At least as far as humans are concerned. And not in the behind the bushes sense. More the candid house party sense.

But the picture of one’s own self is a mighty trend. They even came up with a word for it. A word that my wee daughter has known for as long as she’s been able to know words. Which is something, isn’t it? Not twenty-five years in age difference and such a different beginning. I remember the first computer the family got. I was old enough to be reading chapter books and getting into fights on the school bus. And she has always known a phone that plays videos and only seen the ones with spin dials in museums.

That’s not a damnation of technology. Just an observation of disparity.

She’ll be alright. I’ll give her all the knowledge I have. Which is not much, not yet at least, but once she adds it to all the things she shall learn on her own, those things that I shall never comprehend- she’ll be more equipped than I could ever be.

Not to say I don’t worry. For her. For the world. For the future. For all the good that worry does. Which is little. Unless you count the psychological and physical consequences of constant stress as a good thing. Then it does lots and lots of good.

Me thinks, though.

And in the style of the fresh calendar, I try to reflect with good intentions. A habit I am not great at balancing. I tend to bounce between the extremes of far too critical or far too narcissistic. To look upon thine own self in a more mellow fashion is not something that I am necessarily used to. Or good at. So, it is something to work on. Or I should, at least. Because the extremes are just that, and the middle is where most of everything is anyway. The meat of the sandwich. The plot of a film. The industrious years of a human life. All these live in the middle and tend to be whatever that thing is about. So, I am not the guy in the mirror the drunk guy on the other end is yelling to himself about. And I am not Superman. I am somewhere in between.

He’s not my favorite superhero anyway. I’m more into mid-life crisis, divorced Spider-Man. He’s more relatable.

But I dig that self-reflection is a must. I dig there are good habits to have and bad habits to break. And in general, I know what those are for me. Which is good start. Unless of course, I am more delusional that I can understand. But I suppose I wouldn’t know.

Yet this time of year calls for looking back as much as ahead. And contemplation of the past is not new to me. It might even be one of those bad habits.

So.

A year ago, I was in some other land. A trip on a whim. Taking a shot. A chance. One that I may not have understood at the time. Still not sure of now. But glad to have taken a leap.

Two years ago was likely the height of my depression. The dread for me with the time of year blended with loneliness and paranoia. Reinforced by bad health and shitty habits. But still, important. Contrast can make things beautiful.

Five years ago, I was at a party finding out I need get ready for a funeral.

Nine years, I was about to dive into one of the shortest and most certainly the worst romance of my life. If you can even call that romance. I don’t think I can. But I have since learned.

Ten years ago, I hadn’t a clue to any of what was to happen. Just as I had very little of a clue as to what was going in those very fleeting moments. As I am unsure of what will come next.

So, the picture you saw. You see. Of me. I didn’t take it until just now. After I’ve written all that you’ve just read. And those things I said in the beginning are not false. They are just extremes. Looking now, I can recall some other things.

I know I have eyes that stand out. Which is quite a trait to have. I have been told so. More than once. And I can see what they were talking about. So, there’s that. Which is good. It’s something that I look for myself. In all sorts of other people.

And in women, of course. In romance, if she ever finds me again. Something about the windows of the soul, or what have you.

That good ol’ fashioned romantic crap.