Daily I start for somewhere and daily I end up from where I started.

It’s a circle I know, its slopes are slippery, and it drags me along with it like hordes of rush hour commuters push me in and out of the metro, like flock of seagulls escort me along the sky.

I feel like an odd pigeon among all the pigeons who feed on the left-over bread crumbs or discarded sandwiches on the sidewalks, who are so frightened and yet so fearless to face the mad dash of pedestrians and their contraptions alike, who eat as if that’s their last bit of food ever, and fly away in circles on slightest sign of danger, and end up on the same sidewalk after performing mindless ritual of flying two blocks in circles.

Daily I start for somewhere and daily I end up from where I started.