It is what it is
Rotating and revolving around the same center point, the fan is your clockwork, both entrancing you into and deceiving you out of momentary dreams of what is, what could be, and what should be. Or is it an illusion? It is what it is.
It doesn't matter. You detest entering, but despise leaving once you're there. At the fork in the road you see two paths, knowing a third hides just beneath your nose, and lie down to bask in beautiful hesitation. The high road and the low road. They are what they are.
You glance high and see the glory, but so too feel the pull to look down low. Is it so bad to see what lies down below? Is it in itself an admittance of defeat to even see what lies down the path so "low?" Comfort as the enemy of change is also the enemy of pain. Is an enemy of change necessarily an enemy of progress? It could be.
You lean your head back to your imaginary rest, basking still in hesitation. A full cloud of confusion sneaks from your open mouth, just behind the silent scream, begging every time the seemingly crucial question. The flavor you long for, is it not tasted everywhere? Or is such a delight decidedly a trait of origin, be it the source, or the tender, guided hand? The questions whisp away, leaving you to wonder if it even should be.
So you wonder. And you wander. If you believe it is, then is it not, what it is?