On Ferris Wheels

I am tired, he said. Tired. I can’t stand this ferris wheel—not anymore, he said. I can’t deal with being high-up this instant and bottom-low the next. How can I deal with such swings between charming and hateful, admirable and negligable, eloquent and mute, far-sighted and near-sighted, free as a bird and earthbound? I won’t be charming nor hateful, admirable or negligable, eloquent or mute, far-sighted or near-sighted, free as a bird or earthbound, he said. Don’t ask me what I choose to be though, he said, for I cannot answer that. Don’t ask me that, please, he said. Anything but that. These are all the things he said. Then drowned himself in the warmth of his winter attire, as the lit ferris wheel took him up to bring him back down again. And again. And again. And again—