Cogs

Spinning, slowly, ceaselessly spinning.
This dance of repetition -
less an art form as it is a bleak portrayal of mere functionality.
How dismal to be reduced to a function - a single task, but,
how sinfully glorious to be designated a life of mediocrity.
I cannot leap, so I cannot fall. Cannot fail.

Cogs:

We pivot, slowly, consistently on a path not our own.
A journey is something we will never know,
never live,
never breathe -
for a journey recalls the joy of choice and the thrill of conscious endeavor.
We just spin.

We rotate, turning but never changing, never hastening toward a different scenery where life exists apart from chains and bounds, gears and numbing, jejune mechanics.

I can inhale the scent of independence lurking around the corner,
I can almost feel the warmth from that glimmering prospect of wandering, of deliverance, of uncertainty -
of twirling about in my own waltz in which I am both conductor and star.

Almost.

I ache for collision. For some disruption. This array of cycles makes one unfathomably sick.