Little Motel

The choir sings a familiar chorus, after days of nothing, forcing me out of shelter running for some sanity. It's not purely their fault, after all... they sing because that's their job, it's their motivation that has become so troublesome. We walk simply to move about from one place to another, but what is the force that drives us to move? A destination, person, or goal...  these are the forces beckoning each step further, one before the other, on and on. Like us, the choir sings for a reason, a purpose... though they delight in the torment, that isn't enough to inspire such rhythm and debauchery. We leave for some cold night air and the brisk influence of outside influences and stimulation... those men and women playing their childish games and Sunday morning mannerisms. The three wise men remained at home to finish their supper and enjoy the aria's finale... a moment of disassociation and external supplication. Time passed and we we're called home by the need of familiarity... greeted by interlopers as I crossed the front door. There is no rest or reset from that which haunts me... the chorus rings louder and stronger, fueled by the agonizing remnants of my life. We are not he and never once could have been such... for she can't remain inside the window sill for much longer. It is ours and theirs... nothing is shared, but merely taken. The takers feed... they laugh as we wither inside.