Every day, I take a minute or two and devote it to studying the reflex of my countenance through the mirror image. Each time, I see a different person. A different version of what I was taught to refer to as ‘me’. The changes are subtle, but they are there. There’s always something different -- a different shade of brown to my eyes; a different line to my forehead. Some would say I’m aging, but that’s just another word for it, one that veils the true meaning of counting time. In reality, time doesn’t happen to any of us. It has always been us -- we happen through time.