‘The Circle.’

It’s mundane, yet magnificent. Ordinary, yet extraordinary. Simple, yet baffling.

Its one side includes; it is united, communistic, joined together never to be broken. But it also excludes. An outside. An inside. “Them” and “us”. Who is trapped? Who is free?

It’s the circle of life. Birth, death, resurrection. But it’s the full stop at the end of this sentence

It’s the inevitable, unstoppable rotation of the hands of the clock. But why do they never get past twelve?

The completion of its line evokes wholeness, but a cruel emptiness lies at its core which only the holy One can fill.

It brings stability; banality; security; predictability. But in an instant it can turn vicious.

It’s blissfully unique, yet conforms to its place. It’s a letter of the alphabet. It’s confined in the curriculum, trapped in the elitist club of polygons possessing two dimensions.

It’s conspicuously hidden, veiled in plain sight. The wheels that drive us forward. The signs that prohibit. The green light that beckons us on.

Its paradoxical antitheses will never end.