Who's whose substitute?

I was lying on a bed, looking at the spinning fan on the ceiling. Such a speed, would it crash? Would it not run out of control? I wondered, will the fan ever become bored, being pinned down at a fixated focal point on the ceiling; or is that the reason why it is spinning so madly - to try to break free from the nuts and bolts that bound it?

Doesn't it resemble my life, running around in circles - happily believing that with every turns, I would, I could, find myself a new hope to go on - which in the end only to realise how foolish I was to end up at the starting point, over and over again.

There were times I was so tough and built to last. Like a shiny robot crafted by an adroit scientist, I could not get scratched by all these cuts. I was very surprised to find myself that, one day, I was capable of bleeding. That I have the permission to cry. That I was made of blood and flesh. The wound was stitched, and I put on band aids, of course, made of hope.

Then fateful one day, when I happen to run out of hope, I thought maybe the wound has healed; maybe it has become a scar. I tear the band aid away, and I realise it was bleeding. It took me some moment to realise I was the one that caused the bleeding - that tearing the band aid away is like unplugging a leaking dam - all hell is to break loose.

I was lying on the bed, looking at the spinning fan on the ceiling. I have a lot of questions running through my mind, demanding answers. But one thing is for sure.

The fan isn't the only thing spinning that night.