It fell.

Again.

It was in the habit of just falling completely from perspective, and dropping itself carefully on the ground of affliction to lament and converse with everything else that had fallen, but was never picked up.

It was always picked up. It was always brushed off. It was always cleansed of the doleful dust of actuality. It was always placed, neatly, back upon the self of indispensable.

It was cherished, doted-upon, dreamed of. It was tired.

Bing the object of every woeful daydream and interaction began to wear on It’s luminescent posterior: each fall from grace resulted in a fall from the shelf of indispensable and each time it fell it was placed, ever-so-gently, back just so it could fall again.

And again.

And again.

And each time It was placed back upon the pedestal adorned with a name tag of “Necessitous”, the pedestal was higher; each time it was placed back upon the pedestal, conditions became more afflicted, until one day the pedestal had reached a height that was beyond the comfort level for the compulsory phantasm.

“Necessitous,” it pleaded “Nothing is right. I don’t belong here. I’m dying inside, and I’ve got to be strong, I know, but I need to leave this time. I can’t keep denying that everything is wrong now. I carry it all deep inside myself, I hold it in, and I’m keeping my guard up this time. I’ll keep her far away. No…no, she won’t get in.”

“But what is it that you want?”

“I need some kind of miracle. I need someone to let me know that they won’t get go of me. I lie awake at night and I see the light of this miracle gleaming at me. I need that miracle.”

“Then you must go.”

“But, where do I go?”

“You must go.”

And It did.

And the flame of adulation, the desire for tenderness, the inclination towards infatuation did as well.