Days and days of the same, and pushed onto the narrow path. Friendly faces in range of mine; their words sounding in endless repetition, their sight set to their hands, and their hands to the trivial. Feet guided into their place, and sent straight through the narrows... boxed in until the voice again finds its way to the surface.
Whatever's me in this... is caged. What once was and since many times forgotten. What cries out with its questions, scoffs at the ease in which you answer, and waits endlessly for something better to arise. Looking into your eyes, searching the depths for something more than an empty shell... just hoping for a glimpse of the pattern in you... just enough to justify having woken up this morning. Again failing, the mind returns to its slumber.