My Fan

I hear no sounds, except for the quiet purring of my ceiling fan going around and around and around, the same motion it has been making since it was installed some years ago. I can see nothing, besides the faint, blue glow of my digital clock, the one that only has two volumes: one requires a hearing aid and the other ear plugs. I slowly turn myself over, away from the light of the clock, and I just stare. And I stare. And I stare. I stare into the darkness and I sigh. Now I really see nothing. I roll back to my initial position. The faint light of my clock reminds me I am in my room and not a dark abyss. My fan still purred at me and I looked to where I knew it was, in spite of the darkness I’m always able to find it. You can say that the reason for that is because I have seen my fan innumerous times when there was light, and when you do I’ll just nod my head and agree with you. You’re probably right, but I like to think that my fan is alive in a way, which is why it purrs at me when I switch it on. It’s thanking me because I awoke it from its slumber and now it can move around and around and around, again and again. It purrs at me because I am the one that chooses when to switch my fan off, forcing it back into the time where it has no movement, it has no freedom. It doesn’t like that time. It likes being turned on and doing what it was made to do. It likes its monotonous motion of a circle, the same circle it made yesterday and the same circle that it made the first time it could. Some days its circle is slow, and some days it’s a blur, but it’s still a circle, the circle that was meant for my fan. You can argue with me and say how you have a ceiling fan that does the same exact thing as my fan, and when you do I’ll probably just nod my head and agree with you. You’re probably right, but I like to think that my fan chose me, which is why my fan is not in your room. It’s in my room, making that same exact circle as your ceiling fan, but it’s making the same exact circle as your ceiling fan in my room. It’s different from your fan. It knows when to blow the right amount of air on me when I get too hot, or to stop moving when I get too cold. It understands me. You can give me a bewildered look and tell me that I’m the one who gets up to adjust my fan’s speed, my fan doesn’t choose, and when you do I’ll just nod my head and agree with you. You’re probably right, but I like to think my fan understands me. It knows all of the conversations that I have without me telling it and it can always see what I’m doing, so my fan knows who I really am and all of my secrets. I trust my fan though. It can’t betray me. I’m the one that ends its spinning around and around and around. I am the one who turns it off and forces it to stop moving. I take away its freedom, therefore my fan understands me. You can tell me that I should see the psychiatrist, and when you do I’ll probably just nod my head and agree with you. You’re probably right, but I’ll just turn the other way and stare at the white walls as I listen to the purring of my fan.