Here, in between soberness and slumber,
I found myself trapped in a hazy maze,
where I can’t see my own hands,
can’t feel my own feet,
that I bump into walls too often.

All I can sense are
the persistent ticking of a clock
somewhere beyond,
and commanding voices
—echoing, haunting—
urging me to keep up
with the invincible race,
to continue walking
before others,
“hurry up,
find your way out,
for a prize
awaits you in the end!”
a promise
of clarity and solace
I’ve yearned for,
yet unseen,
unfelt,
unknown.

I grow weary, restlessness
is my only assurance.
But I am lost
and I can’t
see my own hands,
feel my own feet.
I bump into walls
too often, I start to ponder:
when the clock stops ticking,
what’s left of me?
Maybe the entrance
offers a closer escape,
Should I let go
and return?

But then again, I realize
I am trapped
in a hazy maze
where I can’t see my own hands,
feel my own feet,
and bump into walls,
too often.

---

*This was first written in 2012. Can’t exactly remember what month. My first year as a journalist was very tumultuous. I felt like I would never get used to it. We were forced to compete against each other to win a permanent spot in the newspaper. Days were hectic. At night, I relied on alcohol to help me sleep. I kept asking myself, “Why do we have to do this, is it even worth the pain? Why can’t I see the end of the tunnel?”

As this is my first English poem I have ever written, I know it’s not good enough. I made some revisions today, but still think it is not good enough. Nevertheless, I hold this one dear.