Circles

I’ve always been a circle, rolling about in a world of angled shapes. Soft edges, no breaks, my outline incapable of blending in with rectangular figures nor with triangular blocks. 

 I’d roll on solid hard pavements, and on lofty green grass, on one way high-ways non-stop. I’d get bruised;my curved lines torn. I would wait for them to mend, an incomplete circle with no beginning or end. A one-side coin waiting to be seen, for one-sided coins are but figments of imagination, virtual sides in  real minds. And so I’d roll on, unperceived. 

But I always feared corners, for where the lines meet, cages reside; and I, too weak, a vulnerable circle, would get easily trapped inside. Yet they were unavoidable. I crashed too many times. I got engulfed, their lines tied me up, suffocated me, to their strain I had to succumb. But the pain was not physical, my rim remained intact. The corners stabbed my insides, the empty inside of my curved lines. Insides that got reminded of their vacancy when they got in contact with those perfectly full corners; and they longed to be full themselves.

Until you came along, perfectly round, a circle like me, too, and we crashed. Our circumferences overlapped, entwined, each a separate side of the same coin, and together we joined. Then they were able to see me. I was still hollow, but my outline, not thin anymore, was now seen and heard. At least now I’m a curved line that belongs to the real world.

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