IT RHYMES

Fated to be subject of ironic poetry, I wander blinded closing loops of my own making. These revolutions in time and space compose the cacophony of echoes: Events that coil about me, places that change meaning and regain it by some cynical spiral. Each verse, each iteration besots me further. I forfeited my right to a linear existence by clinging to the city I call home, and worse, by repeating patterns of behavior. I shall not complain of a prision, when is me who built it. How foolish is to think one can leave! The good news is that - it rhymes. I'm bemused by this aspect. It feels almost a deliberate cackle at my every strive to return to a linearity, as if I was expected to forsake all hopes to break free of the loop, and instead of this being a dramatic failure, it resembles a joke on me. I see and yet I must feel my way across each event, eternally unable to forstall the diaster right before me. Maybe only when seen from a distance, from outside the unending coil, the joke is funny. The deepest philosophical question I want to answer is not "why this or that happens?" but rather "can it happen otherwise?", as in: Can I happen otherwise? My strength to question this ironic poetry, not to take it for granted as a condition, wanes as I betake myself further, dragging along the memory of every step. My diary will be used against me, the meticulous record of my thoughts will prove how was I able to break loose at any time if I wanted. And yet here I am. Lost in a path I'm fated to walk and fully unable to see. How can it be, that a path predetermined can feel so equivocal? A new verse is finished, the revolution complete, and it rhymes. This is no ordinary rhyme though, this is a rhyme four years in the making, as eternal as the seasons, as predictable as gravity, as unavoidable as the very laws of nature. But, can it happen otherwise?