Routine

This is what things have come to,
bruised and battered by decisions
like a shattered beer bottle
emptied of all its contents,
like meaningless TV shows
running back to back
like time itself,
month-end after month-end,
beckoning in anticipation
till it brings to its knees
the mammoth - the year itself,
measured by the weight
of memories that have stuck,
many others forgotten.
This thoughtful restlessness,
these half-baked thoughts
with an innate desire to be spewed
out of this uterine mind,
begs for something different;
something new, something unsaid,
something you don't see everyday
like the seemingly pointless nail
on the wall next to the lightbulb,
the patterns on the mattress
under the familiar bedsheet,
like the illusion on the ceiling-fan
moving against the motion,
transgressing, transcending
the routine revolution, visible clearly
when the lights are dimmed,
like the solitude of the night,
the charm of fluorescent dreams
beckoning towards greatness,
that giant leap of belief,
that giving up of everything,
putting every citadel at stake
that shake out of comfort, complacency
and out of this womb-to-tomb routine...