we're predictable.
we surrender to days of repetition.
we settle to a sweet, comfortable cycle of regularity,
with clockwork-like rhythm to the beat of safety.
we walk on an endless treadmill functioning on circularity,
where time is insignificant.

each minute like the next,
each day like another one expects,
each month like the one to come,
each year like any other, to which we succumb.

60 minutes in an hour,
24 hours in a day,
365 days in a year,
countless moments in a lifetime.

maybe it's easy to predict the time to come:
monotonous fatigue of yesterday that numbs.
melancholy, apathy, and the indifference of today.
maybe it's hard to guess, to our dismay,
tomorrow never leads to the same tomorrow.