The chair tips slowly, with a wailing creak, as it leans backward, scraping the dull wood floor, bruised and buried by the noises from above, browned and blackened from the rusting of what was, torn and tarnished by the owner’s foot scuffs. There was dust littered upon the ground; the air was eerily stale from the stagnancy of a stubbornness seldom not self-serving.
The chair could rock; the chair could tilt and sway. The chair could, across the remnants of time, slide and scrape. The chair could tear it all apart, add ruin to the rubble. Or rather, the chair could not mind it at all, creak on as it pleased and tip back and forth like the swinging arm of a clock.
Content the life seems; sure, it may. But, a chair of contentedness is one desired by all, to use and abuse, to swing and sway every which way that the chair may or not say it desires that day.
So yes, the chair could ignore the ails of its world and not mind what occurs, but only if it were to revoke any and all of its protests to any happenings that could affect it, happenings that could use and abuse it, swing and sway it every which way in directions that it would otherwise berate with lamentations.
Or, the chair could twist and turn away, save itself from the torment of quiet endurance for the exchange of safe solitude, untouched, unharmed, unused and unabused, not swung nor swayed any which way, rather still instead.
Don’t place your burden upon it; rather, you could sit beside it, offer it company in your shared solitude.
You might find this chair, alone in some corner, away from the crowd, seemingly broken and unwanted for no one cared to pull it forth and offer any other emotion than that of a cold indifference. I have found one such chair myself; though, unfortunately, it was buried underneath many others who weren’t so kind. Its legs almost gave out from the burden it took from others.
If you do happen to find this chair, perhaps, it might not be best to leave it to itself. Not to say that the other end of extremity—of far too many adding to its stress—is better suited. Rather, upon some grayish rug, you could offer it a new perspective, a new chance. Don’t place your burden upon it; rather, you could sit beside it, offer it company in your shared solitude.
One chair beside another, touching arms and tilting and swaying together in a never-ending slow dance. With no burden on each other, they stay young together, not bruised and not buried.
The two chairs, side by side, tip slowly, with a singing melody, as they lean backward, gliding across the shining wood floor.
