Mundane Cycle

The sound of my phone's alarm pierced the silence, dragging me from the haze of an uneasy sleep. I groaned, fumbling to silence the incessant ringing. The screen glowed faintly in the dim room—8:00 a.m. already. Time to get up.

For a moment, I just lay there, staring at the ceiling. My bed felt like a trap, warm and comforting, but I knew I couldn't stay. I pushed myself up, feeling the weight of another day pressing down on me. The cycle was starting all over again.

With a sigh, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood up. My reflection greeted me from the dusty mirror across the room. I stared at the face looking back—tired eyes, unkempt hair, the shadow of a man who once had dreams, now replaced by a hollow shell. "Just where did it all go wrong?" The thought came unbidden, like it always did.

I splashed cold water on my face, trying to shake off the weight of the question. No matter how many times I asked, the answer never came. There wasn't one, at least not one that would change anything. Life had become a series of repetitive motions—wake up, go to work, come back, sleep. Repeat. Over and over.

In the shower, I let the hot water wash over me, hoping it would drown the thoughts swirling in my head. But it never did. I could feel the familiar ache settling in my chest, the same one that had been with me for as long as I could remember. It wasn't pain exactly, more like a dull, gnawing emptiness that refused to leave.

After I dressed, I grabbed my bag and headed out the door. The air outside was crisp, a stark contrast to the stuffy apartment I'd just left. The streets were already bustling with people, all moving in their own endless cycles. No one seemed to notice me, and that was fine. I preferred it that way.

As I walked, I kept my head down, blending into the flow of the crowd. The city had a way of swallowing you whole, making you feel like just another cog in a machine. And maybe that's what I was—just another face in the crowd, lost in the routine of a life that felt like it was slipping away from me.

By the time I reached the corner, I was already running late. Typical. I quickened my pace, ignoring the growing knot in my stomach. The office was just a few blocks away, but each step felt heavier than the last.

Suddenly, something collided with me. I looked down to see a small boy—couldn't have been more than eight years old—staring up at me with wide eyes. His clothes were torn, his face dirty, and his hands stretched out, trembling slightly.

"Spare some change, sir?"

For a moment, I just stood there, staring at him. What could I do? I was no different. The only difference was that I was still standing while he knelt in the dirt. But we were the same—both caught in a world that didn't care whether we made it or not.

"God forgive me," I muttered under my breath as I fished out a few coins and handed them to him. He took them with a grateful nod, and I walked away, trying to ignore the ache in my chest.

As I moved on, the question came again, louder this time—Where did it all go wrong?

But I knew better than to try to answer. It was just another part of the cycle.