Spun

One twist of the finger, and the top starts spinning.

Whirring about.

Its sharp tip drawing a wicked spiral on the ground.

Fingernails tearing through serenity.

As the top spins, it makes the air around it whizz.

The sound of electricity.

Tension.

The air is caught in a vortex.

And pulled apart by a thousand forces working in counter-directions. It whizzes.

It gives the top its sound, its voice, it electric energy.

The air spins around the top

And makes it spin in turn.

It gets dizzy after a while.

Persistence of vision.

Vision gets extended along a tangential line, and finally

All you see is a blurred fat line that connects all around you without revealing

The minute details.

Details by the minute.

Lose track of time as you cannot make sense of the space and direction and distance.

It is a blur.

Cant think, maybe for the better.

The fingernails keep inscribing that spiral.

It is a monument to the cosmic chaos. It stares at the sky, where the the stars are a spiralling blur too.

Then the death throes. Painful, and arduous.

Even the top, the creator of chaos, cannot part with its life so easily.

Tries hard to hold on, and come back to life.

Pushes itself farther and harder, leaning to one side,

To push up the other.

To stay alive.

Gravity wins over the centripetal, centrifugal and all forces centred on its own axis.

The grave belongs to all. We all meet there eventually.

Old friends too.

The fingernails stop crawling.

The top rests.