Habitual Patterns

Circles, always circles. The juncture of an end and beginning, bringing about lightheadedness, which too becomes cycles of circles; spinning and twisting. Trapped in dizzy revolutions; a prison of the infinite, holding and containing like rope rubbing raw bruises and scars. There's no room for escape, for breath, or thought, just an oval path that lures desperate feet, slapping their shoes off pavement as they outrun themselves, but arrive nowhere.

And I'm guilty as charged: a marathon runner motivated solely by the buzzing desperation of fear. I outrun my footsteps, my shadow and thoughts— myself; I'm so sick of circles, their continuous lines of motion that stir bile and saliva. They get me nowhere— nothing; just disoriented thoughts, and an overwhelming sense of vertigo.