A Day Without Recompense

I move continuously onward with the momentous energy of a spiraling shell, caught in a drift, with so many external forces acting upon it. There is no time to stop and contemplate; no room to 'breathe', spare from what little space is occupied by the self. I am the weight of so many actions, and inaction, competing for place atop the preliminary precipice that leads to the continual fall. The stream of life's stream-of-consciousness runs throughout my body which is penetrated and left exposed, as an exit wound, spreading particles of existence that mingle with the world and carry on with their cause, deliberate and complete, as always. There is only motion, in all things, and the stagnant stasis of the word is a lie; only sensations exist with incontestable  truth, subjective as the eye in a mirror. To dig deeper than this is to find the source of all unhappiness; to locate the ever-present question to which there is no answer. Stare at a stone and lose yourself to its patterns, there is no more sense in anything than this.