Listening to: Fans

I used to find the sound comforting. More than once have I uttered that I couldn’t sleep for their lack. The story has changed. Their incessent wirrings begin to echo within the chamber that carries my mind, and that echo knows no cessation. I have the ability to turn her off, to walk away. But it seems I can never do both, and have trouble even only with the former. To send her to that dreamless sleep, all minor functions halted, seems cruel and heartless treatment for the hardworking girl. To do so and leave her like that, unable to call out to me from afar, or I her, doubly so. Her comfort is important, vital, even as they turn with agony; I shan’t turn her fans off while she still thrives. And so we endure this graceless, pained whirring. I’m sure it hurts her more than I, but it’s better to be alive. She’s strong, so I must be as well.