Dirge For Antiquity

You become culpable. You feel you are in a prison of your own making. Cursed familiarity is inescapable, Capable of ennui only-- You rediscover yourself around every corner: an indelible image of what you were minutes ago, aging with the clock's every tick, the merry music of chimes, announcing each solitary hour. And, then, there are the ghosts, shades of those who've graduated, enshrined in faux gold or silver, framed there as no one may keep their flesh and blood when vibrant with life. You live among these images which people your so-called life: the prize for longevity, the Oscar for hanging in until you, yourself are caught in glass, framed and blamed for a long life.