Take the paper, leave some marks,

My mind insists, but I deny the spark.

“These thoughts are unimportant,” I say,

Yet they linger, refusing to fade away.

Brown bread, brown bread—it’s all I see,

From one to ten, I search endlessly.

The simplest reason, the most complex one:

Why did I wake to another sun?

Who follows whom, the bread or me?

“Ten,” my mind whispers.

“No one,” I decree.

The alarm wails—a machine on its last breath,

Yet nothing rouses me from this dreaming death.

Perhaps I need to be dragged away,

By a broken machine or a force gone astray.

My ears choose silence; my mind made it so.

The bread trails behind me, or I let it go.

From one to ten, all is void and bare.

Why did I wake today? What brought me here?

Minus ten. The same road, the same sky,

Only the weight of my thoughts amplified.

And then I see, through the blur and decay:

I woke to greet strangers, starting with me today.

Someone once said, “You follow the pain.”

What could I do? It’s led me, time and again.

In revenge, it seems, love takes its hold—

A story of pain, raw and bold.

Perhaps this tale isn’t pain’s alone.

Perhaps, above all, it’s my own.