A ceiling fan

These four blades have not moved since the beginning of winter. They have hung on thin threads, silently gathering winter dust. They diverge from the fragile centre of and above my head, an open sore of darkness blinking in quick succession. They descend upon me in an unspoken hush, to slice, to cut, perhaps to carve. I stare at the bulbous hub of mechanics at the core, until each blade is imprinted on the retina like a photograph and tears flow and pool in the hollow of my ears. I start to count, around and around.

One blade points in the direction of the train station, the next in the direction of empty boxes, the next in the direction of true north, the next in the direction of true love. Then the next points at the place where we laughed and laughed, then the next points at a long blue coat, the next in the direction of used rolls of packing tape, and then the next at the crimson shade of shame gathering at your shirt sleeves. Four shimmering reflections in polished plastic, four pairs of piercing eyes, four distorted views of myself, staring down in judgment.

I could set the blades spinning, slicing through incandescent light, carving up digestible slabs of summer heat, but all I know: nothing is certain – save for the kaleidoscope of winter dust that will surely shower over me, coating, choking.

How the seasons change. Except that my wits frazzle unchanging.