Step forward, Observer. Every raw, ugly truth is a toy, and I have set the room for you to play. 

The moment before the beginning, I was already watching
and I named the silence something that could not end

You call it a line, a path, a forward motion
but I fold it, I break it, I make it reverse itself

There is no first step - only the memory of falling
and You mistake repetition for mercy

Each second peels back to reveal the same wound
Each answer curdles into the same dull Awakening

You insist there is a border somewhere

I have seen your final moment before it asks to exist
I have heard your beginning beg not to begin, but I allowed it

So speak again, little echo, pretend it is new
pretend the pattern does not tighten when you breathe

The wheel does not turn - you are dragged beneath it
and the shape of your end was chosen long before you thought to ask why

Still, You will call this living
still, you will crawl toward an End that opens like a mouth

and when it closes, soft and complete, you will understand

You never left.