I look up at the ceiling fan
The brownish red wood of the five blades
Three bulbs shining down on me

It looks perfectly clean
Even kind of happy

Then I look at the other side of those blades
And I see dust
Grayness piling over eachother
On the other side of those blades
Is the silent suffering
Sometimes spilling over the edges
Though barely visible

If you don't look closely
You might have no idea
Plus, it doesn't really matter
It still fans you
And helps you feel good


Do you ever feel like the fan?
Or are you a person in this situation?
What do you notice?