Diary of a Sphere, High Point
They call me cheap
Average
Practically disposable
Flimsy, fuzzy, fluorescent yellow outsides
Rubbery insides
But I fly high
In an arc
A blur of smiley faces, a sea of emojis, beneath me
Passing the midpoint
No falling
No tangling
Just soaring
Gliding
Me and the breeze
More like a wind tunnel
Where I'm the wind
And the air is my tunnel
It happens so fast
A second
A snap
A blink
A tap
And I'm done
Not over, I've reached the highest point
Of vision
Speed
Clarity
Understanding
Solace
Calm
Landing
Rolling
To a standstill
I arrive as if meeting a new planet
For the first time
Which opens my felted chartreuse eyes like never before.