Who am I if I stop running?
In this endless race,
Endless twists and turns,
This labyrinth with no clear escape.
They say the cheese waits for the clever,
for the fast, obedient, and blind.
But every trail,
There's nothing to find.
Ever so often,
The walls of the labyrinth close in.
Soft enough to muffle my screams,
Hard enough to bruise the parts of me,
That still have belief.
They mark my stumbles,
Analyze my pace,
Their eyes flicker, cold.
Hands leaving nothing but a trace.
Each maze-turn reeks of someone else's fear.
As if their ghost still lingers here.
Haunting.
The ground remembers each fall,
Each and every slammed-into wall.
We were promised purpose.
It was framed as choice.
But not once did I hear my voice.
Only the loud ringing of bells, bright lights,
Rewards, and shame.
Yet I still carry all the blame.
But something stirs beneath the ache.
A whisper no test can replicate.
What if i pause, mid-turn, mid-race?
And let stillness flood this frantic place?
A piece inspired from the book by Spencer Johnson, depicting the endless rat-race of life, which now begins from a horrifyingly earlier and earlier age.