The Man in Returning Circles

Everybody seeks space junk with loveless life, with packaged goods. From here to Cuba to Kansas. Meaningless attrition of a fifth unknown force will not leap us forward, or perhaps it will push and pull, seek and throw back what we love at all costs, what we lose the most.

My life in rows will run parallel to yours, in health, in love, in mortgage, in numbers, never-ending and never-meeting as we are destined to stop and start on our own, unaware of the walls alongside our desperate run. The dust in our eyes, the blindness we once foretold, will be nothing compared to the rows of runners in a constant race to return where they once were, where they once spoke of good-natured things, of love, of smile.

An the circle will swirl even further, as we become more and more proud of how each stunt in our life is an ambitious prize of recognition, of self-recognition, displayed to the invisible crowd, the mannequins, the homeless perhaps lost, immersed. Circle the ring of fire. Circle the ring of death. Circle no more, return once again and repeat to yourself what you promised. New words spoken to you in a circular memory you keep forgetting day after day, year after year, life after life.

The last percentage will get us there where a last piece of the puzzle is maybe hidden. Another clue to remind us of our fate, our ever-returning path to a state of constant move, rush, that will never meet our future self, , that will never meet the family and friends we left behind, that will only make us spiral out of control.