I ran past a very orange ball sitting against a curb, nestled among newly fallen leaves under a maple tree. Looking at it, I suddenly remembered that there was a time during my childhood when I longed to be an inanimate object. I thought there would be nothing more perfect than to be a picture hanging on my own wall. I could watch the breeze push at my curtains all day when the real me should have been at school. I could watch the sunlight slowly move across the floor and feel the room change and warm throughout the day. I could see the dust collect on my turntable in the nook, and on the pink cushion in my hanging wicker chair over by the closet. The calm and peace of being perfectly still, absorbing stillness around me is a compelling prospect. And today, something made me want to be that silent, unmoving orange ball. Yes, that would be perfect.
Up on the road, I passed an abandoned gate flanked by crumbling stone columns, beyond which lay a small open area filled with overgrown stumps, dead trees and weeds. The dead trees were populated with at least a dozen turkey vultures, hunched with heads hanging low, contemplative. I can't even make that up. The scene was of things posed with a Halloween feel.
I pushed on, neither inanimate or posed, and but still wishing for stillness.
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