This will sound like nothing I've heard before.
Nothing I've felt, tasted or smelled can prepare me for what I'm about to do next.

Matters seem to collapse to this same exact spot, time after time, catching me off-guard. Things, thoughts really, re-introduce themselves into my life, rudely un-announced. They are what makes me whole, and what drains me. Make me tick, back and forth in an ever un-familiar circle, and let me be.

Something has to change, one tells himself, in what he knows will be one of the last times. Rolling out of bed, eyes clenched shut like battle-ready catapults, looking forward still. The mind sees the routine playing, in drug-drenched Technicolor, before it even begun.

Something has to change, now in a whisper, the words saying themselves.

Or does it?