When the dawn spills light over the horizon, I find myself standing at the edge. Thoughts like waves, lapping at the shore of my consciousness. They pull back, only to return, always returning.
The needle spins, a circle in a circle. How strange is it that the same melody echoes within? Each note a memory, each scratch a new scar, but the tune persists. It forgets not, and neither do I.
Can I step outside this loop? Perhaps there lies the answer.
Reflection casts shadows longer than the day, in corners of my mind where dust motes dance in the dim light. I wonder if they ponder their existence as I do mine. An endless inquiry: Is there a beginning?
The world outside continues, yet here I stay, ensnared by the familiar. The record plays, and I listen. I listen. I listen.