ouroboros cog

You’re a gear in the machine. Conscious, but still just a gear. And the grinding never stops. The life cycle of an ouroboros cog, never reaches an end. Spinning until you’re sick, dizzy but never done. The monologue, that droning cacophony of your own internal churning, drumming over your eyes, pounding on your pulsating body. Systemising, making sense, trying to reach a something you have no idea what. She never reaches a conclusion, that babbling bitch. The monologue of you; inhaled, began talking, and hasn’t stopped for a breath since. The monologue of you; 23 years and going strong.

You were born so confused, so you dissect and document, compulsively. Search for what it was you didn’t understand. You’ve been perfect. You’ve been reckless. You’ve met your ego with god and in the sewers. But it’s never been an answer, never an arrival. It’s all floating, moving, blind step forward. You can’t stop it, the tide’s force will pull you on. There is no control, never, not over time. You’re so tired. There is no destination. There is always trekking.

You begin to realise but never finish the thought that maybe that’s your nature. All of yours. Not born to be gears, cogs; nevertheless born as ouroboroses, cognitive. Hunting your end, the big explanation, your whole, deconstructed and digested and produced into its purpose. Hacking away at hermeneutics, always running slightly faster, just out of your reach. Don’t you realise? It’s never done, not even when you’re decomposing.

There will always be more time. There will always be more movement. There will always be the endless march of all of you, soldiers fall and soldiers join, and all of it for—

You clock in at work and count the hours as they pass. You clock out and count the hours you don’t sleep. You clock in at work.