Uniformity

Look out of the window. See the sun glisten on the newly fallen dew on the grass. The shadow of one shaft of grass on another is what creates the difference in the colour, otherwise it is a uniform shade of dazzling green that makes you feel like crying. You gaze at the mystery of life that gives such perfect rendition to the things it creates. Its like nothing can go wrong with this world. Everything is held in balance, like a hand that holds the strings of my existence.
I walk past thousands of people who are like me, going about their business everyday, minding their business everyday, no time or need to cease. Same expressions, same uniforms. How is it that they don't feel the despair, like me? How come they don't see that their existence is pre-defined in circles? I get everyday in the morning thinking that today you will change; today the world will change. But nothing changes. You feel as if you are a sacrificial goat, one that is brought to the sacrificial altar everyday to have your head chopped off. And everyday you are taken back because some other non-descript-looking goat gets ahead of you and gets its head chopped off. When you see the blood dripping from the severed head and the neck, you feel that it was supposed to be your blood. It was supposed to be your redemption. That colour of the blood, that way in which the blood gushes its way regally down the cut throat was supposed to be the sight you would make. The temple floor would be adorned with the madness of your glory.
How is it then that I still move along the path that is etched out, keep on moving along the way that knows no end, till you come to a chasm that will not break your neck when you fall, but slowly draw the breath out of you, as if you are a balloon deflating in very slow motion, and realize that all the while you were up in the air, bobbing up and down among the happy Sunday crowds, your throat was being wrung?

Look at the tap drip.