Involuntary actions set to a drum, pacing through the mindscape of those that came before her. It had become an uphill battle, that dark dimly lit spectrum of time, and who could have known the challenges that would begin to roll down to the base. The mirror no longer reflected kindly on her face, wrinkles became stories, and the scars became shame. She had given her all, through it all, and despite this there was still much regret. Still much sorrow, time passed, used up like an old book that’s bindings had began to break. She would have done things differently; at least that’s what she would say to others. She knew better though, not a damn thing would have been done different. The same battles, the same hurdles, the same up-hill climb all again and again. Her fate had been set, ingrained and determined long before the breath of her first dawn. Predictable she was, hardened she was, ashamed not to have broken free from that deep-rooted imbalance that tied her to this fate. She was here now staring in the mirror, retracing the stories in the wrinkles, reliving the shame in the scars. Whispering, “time laps in an ever-flowing flat circle, doomed to repeat.”