Circle

He's tired of walking the circle. Sounds and colours that he tries so hard to distort into fragments of incoherent pitches and hues. His mind is in schism - should he be afraid of the wholeness of those that best remain fragmented and obscured? Or should he refuse to be afraid and concieve of them as a whole?

"Ignorance is like a two faced coin," he said to himself once. But he can't decide which side to look upon, for he had already taken a peek.

He walks around the circle coming back to the same unwanted spots over and over again; sometimes tired of anticipating the desired spots and passing them by. And he wishes hard to stumble upon the next circle, and for that one revolution, where all the shapes are new and all the colours and sounds are new. But the closest thing he can do to get to the other circles is to wish. So he wishes, sometimes as hard as he can, until it comes.

He wondered once, about how the best thing and the worst thing about going to another circle was the fact that you could never tell when it would happen, or what you could do to make it happen, or whether it would happen at all.

He mostly walked, sometimes tired and wishing, but mostly he walked.