Crack

You catch glimpses of years like this, sometimes. A crack in the glass, and through smoke (petrol, cigarettes, candle, factory) you catch a glimpse of yourself in some mirror. God, I look old you think, and you look older because the year has been awful through dreadful tragedies, but just disheartening because it has been full of mundane and everyday sorrows. Nothing to write home about, sometimes nothing to even tell anyone, sometimes just nothing. They tire you though, age you out, these banal commas that punctuate our sentences of seventy, eighty, ninety years. Skip you forward a few stations - oh! the terminus station is nearer than I thought! Nothing much to do, years like this, when cups of tea aren't as nice as you remember and everything seems that little bit less interesting than it had when the year had just began.