living in the orbit of trivial matters

... walking,
wandering,
looking around,
not working,
thinking of your final fight,
avoiding the daily painful light.
the false whirling when you embrace with your lover,
revolving around the same things like a satellite
- and that is not of love -
drinking shitty tea,
rotating,
consuming life,
while carrying the inability to be sad truly,
drinking, just, drinking,
the cliché of sadness;
wagging your legs,
and getting maniacal,
irreversibly.
the ineptness of avoiding stupefying nebulas,
feeling your weight while walking,
you are - still - not working.
realizing that you cannot escape from the orbit,
the inability to decide what is "great" in life,
but being certainly sure about what is "little."
complaining meaninglessly,
deceiving yourself that you are living linearly,
whereas it rotates continuously;
the ineptitude to gather your courage,
the insufficiency of what is gathered,
the banality of insufficiency,
accepting that you are a pig,
conceding that you have no voice to shout, nor scream,
for anything,
for nothing.
the horrible gap between the real words,
and what is coming out of your mouth.
and,
to close that gap,
walking,
wandering,
stopping when you arrive at your starting point,

stop.
look around.
sit somewhere.
and then,
start again;

the orbit never stops.