D.O.S. (Disintegrating on Schedule)

I don’t recall the picture, only that it starred an actor who was young and handsome at the start of his career fifty years ago but was now an aged relic. Dark thoughts in the darkened theater as I watched the folds of wizened skin beneath  the famous chiseled jaw, pouches beneath the steel-gray eyes.  Projected on the screen at fifty times life size, .

He’d been a hero once but had changed into the old man in front of millions.

On the drive home, I keep glancing at my own eyes in the mirror. My private degradation, just as certain.

 

Friday Fictioneers