What have I accomplished in a half century?
I putz around so that I wouldn’t choke on anxiety.
I smirk when I get nauseous from loneliness.
I blink for tears well up fogging my sight.
I am oscillating between reality and a memoir.
The reflection in a mirror bows the streaks-of-white-showing, unkempt, hoary head.
For The Daily Post’s daily prompt, Gray.