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The object with a mind.

I am the statue that you pass by, in that park you always visit. You always look, but never say a thing. I'm not good for conversation, I guess.

I am the broken toy you still keep. You didn't know I was broken, I looked fine when you bought me, but I don't work the way I should. You get angry with me, as if, somehow, it was my own fault.

I am the chair that you sit in, for a moment, just to rest, or to enjoy the view, before you go off again.

I am the leftovers you forgot.

The one floorboard that always squeaks.

The window that doesn't quite close.

The footsteps in the attic.

Are you my owner, or my friend, or just a passerby?

Do I scare you, intrigue you? I don't think I'll ever know. Unless we could hang out, for once. But who am I kidding? Only crazy people talk to objects.That's what I am, aren't I? Surely I must be.

I've tried to ask a few people... they only sigh, or get mad... or pretend that I'm not there. I guess I'm not supposed to speak. I'm sorry, I didn't know.

They only tell me when something's wrong. When I fall, or slip from their grasp.

I try to offer solutions, but they just get mad again. Am I not supposed to think, either?

I wish someone else would pick me up, take me away from here. There must be someone who wants to hear me, right? But I don't have eyes to see, or legs to walk....

Why must I be in this body? I'm so much more than....this.

I guess I'll just keep waiting. I'm good at waiting.


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Crowley K. Jarvis
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