A broken ball.

Seeking to return to itself in all entirety; to be whole again; to be fat and round; to ease around the tension of friction and frolic about aimlessly, moving in tandem with the force applied to its cushy surface.

Much less to hope for, much more to miss.

Now but a broken ball, beyond a shape recognizable and therefore stripped of its deformity. It has since been abolished from the class of its once-comrades and now it lies alone, the air sucked out of it. Deflation has never hit worst since the Great Depression (or was that a recession now?).

Flattened by societal's pressure, the ball only hopes to be reinstated its ostensibly lowly position as, well, a ball. To be kicked around in the fields and chewed on by beastly creatures, to be left sulking alone in the rain only to be retrieved by that irresponsible kid upon request by the incessant nagging of his mother, to be thrown into the cage with his friends, forced to be side-by-side with things he didn't like and yet grown to accept.

Because now, the bitter things that made life distasteful actually gave it a taste to remember. And it is still too late to reminisce about all these because the blandness of nothing-to-come has slowly gripped it in fear and helplessness.

Like a batter without a cake to become, like a court without kids to play and fight in, like a home without a family to hide in.

Like a life without a reason and a lie without a truth. What good is there in being a half-ball if there is no reason to be half-not-a-ball.

We get lost in our journey back to where we started. We forget why we are who we are and we only think things are going to get better. Perhaps not then.

Truth is, sometimes the beginning is always the best and when we realize it, it's far too late to journey back.

The only way is forward.

That is not to say you can't make a full circle.

It just takes balls.