There’s a strange comfort in the monotony of it all, in tracing the same paths, watching the same landmarks pass by as if they, too, are part of the cycle. The graveyard I walk past each day stands still while time rushes on, a quiet reminder that, no matter how far I go, the path always leads back. Rushing to work, I chase the ticking clock, only to find myself chasing it again on the last tram home.

Yet, within the repetition, something shifts—subtle, almost imperceptible. The morning light hits the buildings differently, the air smells of rain one day and dust the next. A song plays on the radio that I haven’t heard in years, pulling me back to another version of myself. Even in the sameness, the city breathes, and I breathe with it.

Exhaustion settles in, but so does anticipation. The cycle continues, but each step carries something unseen, something just out of reach. Each day, I set out. Each night, I return. Always forward, always back—a journey through the known, carrying me toward an unknown future.