As life goes, so do I

revolving doors

I am stuck in this vertical wheel. At first, it was fun and games to keep chasing the panels. The glass windows moving just fast enough for me to catch glimpses of people that would come through the door. Obviously, I can't really stop. There's always the sparking interest and excitement in wondering what the next person in front of me will look like. When I first catch the side profile of a stranger, curiosity pulls my feet to move faster in order to beat their pace so I can get a better look. As always my anticipation builds as the doors approach the point of entrance because the stranger will need to slow down to exit. And as always, I will vainly stretch my neck to see their features, turn my head as far back as I can before I get whiplashed by my own momentum. On cue, the disappointment settles in when I only get a view of their back. The doors begin to slow as the exit opens up before me. I pass it, wanting to keep playing this game. I think to myself that I'll win the game, I'll move faster the next time or I'll make a commotion to get a stranger to look back towards my way. 

I know how the doors work. One way in, one way out. Moving traffic so the doorways never get jammed and collisions are avoided. Most revolving doors you push yourself and force makes the world go round. Some of the fancy ones are automated, dictating the pace you must move at. I can't tell if the doors I'm trapped between are automated. I've been chasing these doors for so long that I don't remember if I had pushed them in the first place. 

In fact, how did I end up between these panels, amidst these glimpses of strangers? Did I put myself here? Was I always playing this game or did I invent it to pass the time? These questions I pose for myself, the answers that I try to fill in with only go along in circles with me. 

I'd imagine these doors are automated. But then what drives them? My need  for attention? My crave for affection? No, I think that's what compels me to keep chasing these strangers.  Surely the mechanics must be as complex as their engineer. Or maybe its really just straight forward facts arranged to design such a trap. 

Eventually, my feet get tired of running, my energy wearing down, and yet the insatiable need to know drags me along to keep chasing these panels. Undeniably, I feel deprived in not knowing who the stranger is, what would happen if I were to actually collide, crash, and connect. This tyrannical need to be loved the way that I loved you tortures me every lonesome night.