That’s me, but you know that. I should probably be more shy about posting my image. There’s something to be said though about marking the passage of time. There’s something to every new white whisker, even when they come by the dozen now. Or by the score.

So that’s me serving a look that my relatively new boss calls Magnum PI Meets Bladerunner.

That’s me with a few dozen new white hairs. It’s not the white hairs really though that mark the passage of time. It’s the new discomforts of aging that don’t show so readily in photos, or not yet anyway.

I’ve been thinking about what feels like a physical decline. I don’t feel well. It’s something beyond the cluster headaches though they truly fuck with the head. They’re going on an uncharacteristic fourth week and taking a toll emotionally. I’m putting all my energy into what is required to show up in every sense of the phrase for work. There isn’t much left and even the desire to spend the downtime with anyone but my dog is seriously diminished. My workout routine is… well… off. My social life is on hold for the most part. I’m in pain.

My knee is filled with fluid and the pain is limiting my characteristic wanderlust. Bed always seems a reasonable option.

And I’ve really just bored the fuck out of myself. More another time, as I do feel the need to record all this. What else is there to tell this story. There is a roughly 75,000 word document locked away on Google and the story feels only half told. I can’t focus, and as a memoir it already lacks focus. It’s all there is though.

And a photo archive.

And a compulsion to continue recording all this.

All this what?

That remains to be seen.

I don’t feel so good.