I am the ceiling fan

I am the ceiling fan,
circling fast, but remain in one place.
The white noise it emits imitates
the neverending thought process.

It spins up high, alone from the rest of anything.
Everything is what I aspire to to be.
It is a lonely thought, one of selfish characteristics.
Built on the wishes of good intentions.

It’s hard not to spin and twirl with ideas of something closer.
Though closeness is what I feel wherever we are.
You are the mount that holds me steady as I spin, spin, spin.
My blades can cut deep.

Electricity is a fuel that recreates itself.
I’ll never slow until someone cuts it off.
My mind is the motor, creating movement.
The dust are mistakes made along the way.