The Hypnotic Tune

(We Called It Sanity)

Consistency. Continuity. Repetition.
It’s a fucking loop.

And I quaffed her deception,
Like a pint of fine wine.
Danced my fingers through them products,
Picking only the pretty ones,
Leaving behind the “ugly” ones-
A broad grin worn; tonight will be great.
Evening came, and morning came;
And it was a fucking loop!

It was not a pint this time,
But a pool of it.
And I swam in it.
Savourably,
With every stroke,
Whipping the sweetness,
And trying not
to lick my fingers,
Without drowning;
As I danced them over
the same products as yesterday.

They looked like today’s products,
But I didn’t think to think.
Today, I just picked,
Like yesterday.
The pretty ones as before,
From the ugly ones.
And
I didn’t know it then,
But they were the ugly ones
from before.
Funny how pretty they looked;
Funnier how free my choices felt!

“Just how I like it-“
I even added instructions;
Spice things up a little, perhaps…
“Right away, son.”
And she reiterated it!
Perhaps not then,
But in a little echo, deep inside;
Somwhere, in my archival mind.
It was familiar, alright;
All too familiar, you could say.
And at that point,
I froze.
This fucking loop!

Consistency. Continuity. Repetition.
It was maddening;
And yet, strangely, soothingly…
To the point, it became part of us,
Consistently;
We departed from reality,
Even demanded a loop back.
“We need it!”
Some added.
Demanded the repetition on.
For continuity.

Aren’t they anyway,
inextricably intertwined?
Of course, it’s all connected.
Everything is.
And normalcy?
Our normalcy?
Well, what is real anyway?
And oh-
what on earth did you term “normal”?
Is it what is regular?
Is it what you’d desire?
Or is it not… a fucking loop!

And I looked back to the days passed,
With misty eyes, and a clouded mind;
And my blood froze.
This loop; oh…
I could almost taste it,
The paste I used in the morning.
And the words too!
I remember how I spat them out
-with such bitterness

“Fucking puppets”
I remember chocking those out,
And they had sounded rather familiar.
Could almost swear I swore the same;
Perhaps not yesterday,
Or the other day,
But the memory was still so fresh.
Lingering, in my mind…
Like the smell of this fine wine,
Which I was drunk in.
We called it sanity,
I called it some confused shit.

And years’-old memories came flooding;
Past records,
washing through my eyes.
A hundred times and over, you said that.
“No shit”
I froze.
“The fuckening!”
Is everything you do every day
an every day choice,
or a repetition of yesterday’s?
An affirmation of sorts;
to sustain consistency.
Facilitate continuity. Repetition.
Oh- what; this fuckening!

We’ve named it sanity,
But does THIS sound off-beat?

I froze.
And I didn’t know it anymore;
What was real, and what wasn’t.
My choices, and my purpose.
My time,
And oh-time! Whose time?
Whose music; whose tune?
Whose hypnotic loop!

##

Photo by Ehimetalor Akhere Unuabona on Unsplash

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