Edges

I feel as if my edges have eroded over time. I've become something that spins perfectly in place always moving but never going anywhere. I try new things but eventually end up back where I started. I look around for inspiration but see only what I've known. I crave new experiences, new sights but haven't the means to persue them. I dream but even my imagination has settled into a well worn rut. Even what happens only in my head has no spark, no hook to draw me in. This creative numbness scares me. I already have so little, I can't lose my greatest reprieve, that which makes and sustains me. Without it I'm just a shell, an actor playing a part that has no substance.