Change

The glossy sheen of adventure has worn away, the warmth of friendship is tainted by a quickly approaching end. The comforts of home are washed away as an inevitable change floats in the air and settles into what was familiar and makes it foreign. But still I linger. How much longer will my world pause in this dusk. Like one who is sick and dying and wishes for an end of suffering, I wait for the sun to set on the life I've had here.

Repetition

Oh what insanity. Painting a picture with every detail starting at the farthest reaches and crawling slowly to the surface. Only to start over again.
Week after week, like a play. Every prop built and put into place, every actor and actress devoutly performing their roll to the point of exhaustion. Only to perform once again.
Every meticulous detail stroked on with a brush, every emotion displayed on their faces. Artist in their own way but never acknowledging their roll. So wrapped up in a painting it has become their world. So caught up in their part, it has become their lives. Only to start from the beginning once again.
Maybe the pleasure of their audience is what drives them. Maybe love of  their art. The accomplishment of a beautiful painting or to bring people into a world they couldn't imagine.
But if accomplishment is their goal why have they not accomplished and moved on? What drives them to continue in the same manner when the tides have washed away what they have spent so much time on? Why strive to chase the sun until it is gone from view, day after day?
They run in circles but all they see is a straight line. Have they not noticed the repetition of scenery or the path they've worn in the ground?