I stared at the mirror.

In it, I saw a person, not unlike myself.

He had bags under his eyes from lack of sleep. They puffed like deflated marshmallows that had fallen in campfire ashes.

His shoulders sagged, as if a weight, immovable, perpetually attached, dragged down at them.

The man’s face was unshaven, ragged and tear-stained from a night of unconscious tears.

His hair was unkempt. Little strands of hair stuck out at strange angles, as if saying, “Get me off of here!”

His cheeks were sunken in, and his forehead full of wrinkles. Stress, tiredness, work; life had sketched them in with a permanent marker.

His eyes stared blankly at me. They didn’t want to see me, anymore than I wanted to see him.

I turned away form the mirror, and walked away to get my necessary cup of coffee.

But that man stared on in my mind.

I could always rely on my mirror to remind me just how much I hate mornings.