I sit on my bed.
I am relaxed.
I cannot tell if it is real,
Or made by my mind.
I glance up and watch the ceiling fan
As it rotates and rocks forever,
And I wonder,
"What is forever?"
Wind from the fan washes over me
And I sigh, competing with its' gust.
There isn't much more to life
Than a ceiling fan, at 5:12 AM,