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nostalgia is blue.

I lied down. It's not important why. I refuse to give the thing any more attention or advertisement. Hopefully, it will never matter. I laid in my room's old carpeted floor with a hollow ribcage, by myself, for seven years. As I stood horizontally I gazed at an old wooden fan, strong but beaten by the passage of time. It had three lightbulbs, one of which was crooked. I hadn't noticed the crooked lightbulb before. I hadn't noticed much about the fan either. With broken down lips I spoke to it.

"Here's to praying that you'll fall on my face and kill me before I have to see any more man-made horrors beyond my comprehension."

I stared up. The old wooden fan didn't bother to stare back down. We both knew it was too sturdy to indulge me, having outlasted most of its previous owners. Maybe a second passed. Maybe an hour. Probably a number of minutes.

"Come on, do it. What are you here for? Only spinning for our consumption. This is is your chance, your way to be remembered." I can't remember in which languages I called for it. I'm too scared to ask it to remind me.

I shut up. The old wooden fan trembled in my vision, still in silence. I knew it was a trick of my eyes. I could hear its refusal in my eyelashes. I could feel its stubborness in the old carpet under my fingers. I gave it my time, hoping it would reconsider. It didn't. I talked to it again.

"Your kindness is astonishing and your silence is deafening."

I sat up and wept with dry eyes.

(Narration of an old wooden fan, by me. Based on a real experience.)