Upon the writing of my memoirs (Time Traveler)

I've traveled through time from the back of my mind,
exchanging the now to stay in the then.
No need to keep doing when I've already done,
There’s always more now tucked away in the when.
But when the whens grow thin and force open my eyes
the now that is now is not recognized.
Withdrawals of nostalgia have left me for dead
as I stand before the mirror scratching my head.
Face wrinkled, hair thinning, stomach sagging and dragging
my feet to the cold tile, making me shiver.
This truth is constant, the way you phrase it is art:
everybody dies alone, I've just had an early start.