Synecdoche

Slowly, we slip, spiraling into ourselves, holding onto irrelevant lives, merging into something other. But only for those caught ungrounded with existence bittering.

What narrative is wrappped around a bland life?

What is shut out?

Are we not just slowly building rooms of our consciousness, cardboard cut-outs which people chipboard sets, invisible cities closing up to build the world within?

A world constructed from within: not a world within a world, but a growing shell encompassing the warehouse that is encompassed by larger warehouses.

Repetitious repeating and other badly thought thoughts

Years built to extinguish overlap into oblivion.

I sit blank, reflecting the loss of all I imagined; life emptying out of an ossified childhood. 

"And how we repeat moments of our lives the same conversations!"

There are various flavors of silence, various stages of collapsing or expanding.

We all have our own suffering to deal with.

(and what right do each of us have to speak for the world?)