I've said all this before, but I'm now no more than a pattern... a circle returning to itself - sending feet into steps they only just left, and yet only remember when retaken.
This is my mind; its thoughts abandoned to instead take part in the noise surrounding my every step. Filling these halls with the sound, filling in the gaps that speak greater volumes with their silence... glossing these things over, sending them backward, that they might lose themselves in the clutter of so many unanswered questions.
Cover our lives this way, put hands to tasks we pretend to need us... when it's us that need them. It's us who can't make sense of the greater toils and treasures, or find our ways out of its cycle; it's us, just as it always has been... us and nothing more. While the emptiness remains filled, what could ever change?