Night wanes and clouds collide orchestrating a bleak activation to my morning ritual. Outside I see grey. I can sense it in the air, thick with desolation, it will volley as it did the preceding era. And the delusions of my subconscious can offer no escape. I am entombed in a cycle of permanent nature. Why must things be this or that? Black or white? Why must we pick our chosen conduit before having given sensible thought? Clock in. Clock out. Clock in. Clock out. It repeats itself. Where are the turquoises and greeneries of the overlooked? Where does the wind blow when it prefers not to shadow the tides? How does the moon wax when there is nothing for it to convert? Why do we fear simplicity and voyage far more than a nauseating routine? Have we lied to ourselves about vocation? Are we missing the beauty set forth into this world by Our Creator? Have we fallen from our deliberate hallways into a somber of reminiscing? We do not know what could be, because we are content with just being. I, for one, can no longer observe while the world grows distant to me.