Sometimes I want change to happen for me. Progress to be a gift, if you will. This is the part of the fantasy in which I am such an amazing and moving creature that life spins on it's access around me, admirers driven to bring my fresh fruit and a bounty of love.
Ladies and Gentleman, this fantasy bears little resemblance to reality. As most fantasies seldom do.
The reality is much more complex and involves me and a tired iron and a big large pendulum like object, useful only for leverage as I attempt to move myself, my world and the things that matter into some vague pattern that resembles a painting I've grown reasonably fond of. Some abstract piece of art, beautiful in it's own awkward way, complicated in places it maybe shouldn't be, oddly simply in the center, and in the end very much still a work in progress.
The reality drives home with every heavy step I take to transport the corpulence of being that I am not a source of gravity, not a force of nature, not a celestial glimmer, temptiing action and inpiring mere mortals to motion with the merest flickr of her shiny eye.
But I guess, in the end, every object has it's own gravity, and sometimes I move something small, something somewhere, quite despite myself. Even if I can't see it.