walking in place

I’m walking in place, one foot next to the other, to stagnant images and stalled dreams, stuck in the transformation between imaginary and real like a broken record player forever reciting half of a word. I wear the same clothes, listen to the same songs, and dance to the same beat with the same drink in the same bar. The air is stale and the sun less refreshing, like swimming too long resulting in wrinkled fingers. There’s a word balancing on the tip of my tongue, a ballerina pirouetting before a crowd which already knows the last act. Escape.