18 or 19 months. I have recently seen it written, more than once, that this is a relatively short time. It feels both short and long.
I ask myself at 3:45am what happens to unresolved frustrations. I wonder if there is a repository in my mind that keeps them on a list waiting to be ticked off. I believe, if unresolved frustrations are like most other things I think of, they are merely forgotten.
A loud engine, screeching tires, loud voices. Tonight’s intruders.
I asked myself, as I do often to compensate for not having another to ask, has age or stress given way to this extra piece of forehead I see when I look in the mirror.
A man ageing under meekly stressful circumstances.