The Rewinding Tape of Life

The rustic, cyclical pendulum swings back and forth, vacillating somewhere in the world just as the tarnished flicker of resolve rises from the faded bedsheets. The figure awoke, becoming druxy with a profound sense of desolation. It’s the commencement of another tristful awakening with the morning dew germinating the manifestation of a deciduous process to fall upon my inner core. My mind is utterly strewn throughout the meticulously arranged day that has been prophesied far too soon. Everything is stationed where it always remains. I perambulate across the screaming floorboards with shadows pressed at my heels in the uncomfortability of the incandescent light that is an indecent exposure of my temporary unmoored state of insanity. The rusting gears and springs lit the fuse of a chain reaction of behests to string along with the flashing omens. Each step makes one want to fall and grovel to the next step of even making the simplest selection. We move forward to the curves of the spherical pathway that tediously repeats itself until we are tethered to the simple act of living that is like quicksand gradually sinking you into the reality of the endless tauntings you repeat to screen you from the disquietude of the storyline you won’t ever find. We blankly listen and stare at the still sights negligible to us until the silence becomes the grandest travesty to erase what lies beyond the delicate sheet of fractured sanguine. As we look down at the sink, the unbearable double cross between oneself and far entities evoke a cosmological telecast to the core to crush the masqueraded veneer of anachronistic perception to bolt and forage newfound realities to cosplay a work of antithetical alternatives.
For every day the familiar film reel we have puzzled together is pieced together by the habits we have modeled conceptually that venture a permanence that is fixated in our heads. We are engulfed into the repetitive rekindling of the arson. We address our misaligned plans as we watch the tiniest deaths of potential trails turn to ash. Concealed within the loops we view as an agonizingly forevermore and beyond repair, until we distinguish the difference between the solidarity objects in our life to the everflowing, lucid vantage point of perception. Until we take responsibility for the world we have made, reality will emerge as a likely expanse where one is free from the reruns we dwell in until we reach a debrief. Until we look directly at the mirror to come eye to eye with ourselves will we see the ever reviling inauthentic worldview and dispositions we have contributed to. Through the peregrination of trees bent beneath the weight of frozen branches and cracked pavements with will blowing winds, the morass will fade into the gray of old chapters before becoming wanderlust into an ambiguous revelation behind the diaphanous, fleshed lids.
It is easy to get caught in the crossfire of our own thoughts as everything seems to crumble even in the midst of trying and claiming that position as we search for a sign for a fleeting moment to scour the sheer inevitable feeling to find the glimmering surface underneath. Yet, the malevolent and lingering possibilities are always intertwined within us, we just decide when to turn our heads and focus on the focal point of reinvention. As life flashes by through the bitter or too sweet, the morsels of sunlight on the groggy morning can be blinding or the guiding light to new doorways.