braking.

At a loss I spin my wheels in hopes of gaining traction in which ever direction grips first. I have not the luxury of being choosy. I've wasted time, burned it as if it were a lamp, and now it's grown so hot that it may shatter or explode. Both, if I'm lucky. For such violence would at least be something emotional. Something passionate to course through my creative consciousness. I've been dulled by repetition, ground down by routine, and if the monotony remains unbroken, then I myself might break.