The Fan

Sometimes I stare at the ceiling and the only thing willing to move is the fan.

I’m floating on the bed; laying still, but slowly sinking without care.

Why should I?

The fan does what its told, but does it get tired?

Does it have to be inspired?

Does it have to multi-task with deadlines?

Or does it just spin for no reason?

Does it have to pay bills, learn skills, keep it real, and survive in this country of landfill?

Does this fan have to stay healthy , mentally and physically while the economy attempts to lure it in with filth for the sake of money and power?

Or does it even need that?

Is this fan worried about its life being taken away outside or inside of his home?

Does this damn fan even think of the future, past, and present, and try to make sense of all three internally?

Does this fan even know time?

Does the fan know obsession, deception, regression, depression…

Or does it even need to know these things?

Does it care about love? Does it stare at me as I sleep alone?

Does it care when I toss and turn at night?

Or does it just spin?

I didn’t think so.

It’s just a fan.

So the fan can keep moving.

I will not.

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