In the Depths of Confusion
As if wandering inside the walls of oneself in the perpetual motion, the mind oscillates between what is and what could have never been, each thought revealing another shadowy path obscured by the fog of yesterdays that never passed, whispering secrets not meant to be known but nevertheless unavoidable as the falling leaves that carpet the autumn ground in shades of gold and crimson, encapsulating a story of their journey as whispered by the wind in conversations just out of earshot.
Continuously spinning, the cycle spins itself and more in more ways spins, tied to the axle of chronology, the engine of purpose, loss inscribes itself upon the fabric like a cat's claw tracing patterns upon a restless soul, pausing only to chase specters of its own making, an echo of footsteps leading into alleys nameless yet familiar, those pathways through possibilities bound now by future's tentative grasp always seeming at the edge of becoming, at the index of never.