I'm constantly moving forward, but it's tearing me apart, 

as if I'm stationary, waiting at a bus station in the dark, 

Where there's no light of day, when my sun has been covered, blinds have been shuttered, and there's no sight of a ray.

 

But yet I stay, waiting for that bus in a shadow of my own mind, 

I know i will make it in a matter of time, although I press rewind and remain at a stop. 

So I stop, and think of ways that I can move on this treadmill of life. 

 

It's like I'm moving, yet I remain stationary

As if the path I'm on is imaginary, 

So i look in the mirror and i ask myself, is this all fiction?

I guess I'm united in a state of many contradictions.