In early autumn, one day, with the boy’s warm breath, I came to life—among sheets of colored paper dusted with coarse glitter, bits of wood, and the sharp smell of glue. I awoke to the boy’s shriek and understood that my name was spinning top, and that spinning was my identity. I was a simple being, but alive. My breath and my whirring voice depended entirely on the boy’s warm breath. Each time he puckered his lips and sent air toward me, I spun—and spinning was the whole meaning of my life.

Sometimes I rested on a table in the corner of the room, silent but waiting. Sometimes I spun in his hand and experienced the peak of being. A few times we went down the apartment stairs. There I saw the roof of the street—how high it was. They called it the sky.

After a few days, the boy came to me less often. In solitude and waiting, I sometimes thought about the sky. One day I heard them say they were going on a trip. I had no will to say stay or take me with you. I simply existed—abandoned, yet still a being.

One evening, before they left, he took me to the balcony and blew into me for a moment. It was pleasurable. But soon his mother called him. He wedged my stick into a hole in the wall and hurriedly shut the door and left. I was completely dazed and slack. Though the sky was above me, fear kept me from enjoying it. As darkness fell, my terror grew. Inside, I felt utterly alone and wretched.

The darkness deepened. My thin, fragile body trembled. The light from the neighbor’s balcony lamp and the voice of a child shouting, “Look at the stars up there!” brought me back to myself. I dared to look at the sky again. The proud glow of the moon and stars filled me with delight. I became so absorbed in their beauty that I forgot the darkness. It was as if I had crossed the greatest fear of my life. I felt victorious—whole. That night I stared at the sky until I fell asleep without knowing when.

I woke with a jolt, stunned to find myself spinning, though no one was there. A gentle, even breeze—with its cool, free breath—gave me life and set my soul dancing. A new excitement stirred within me. The sky, too, seemed to smile openly. Near noon, the breeze left. The sun blazed. The air grew hot and my body weakened. Still, I did not close my eyes. I looked—at the sky. The sunlight hurt. I closed my eyes and opened them again, this time to small colored lights scattered across the balcony walls and ceiling. As the sun moved on, the lights faded and disappeared.

From the corner of that small balcony, an opening to the infinite world had been granted to me. Day and night I gazed at the sky. Sometimes the breeze came and carried me beyond myself. The meaning of my life became entwined with an indescribable pleasure. I woke before morning waiting for it, lovingly. I believed it too longed to see me. The breeze became my companion—wordless, yet faithful.

One morning it did not come. I was disappointed, heartbroken. I experienced a second failure of attachment. The sun shone, and I distracted myself by watching the scattered lights. Suddenly I felt the coolness of the breeze slip between my blades. I trembled with joy—joy mixed with astonishment. The small lights danced as I spun. This light came from me. My coarse, colorful glitter scattered light under the direct sun. I felt proud that something was radiating from my being. That day, the breeze stayed with me longer than ever. Near dusk, the lights went out. We were both exhausted. The breeze left.

For several days it did not return. This time I did not surrender to restlessness. I clung to the wonders of life. Until one evening it returned—with another spinning creature. It seemed that in my absence, it had amused itself with him. I felt hurt, but said nothing.

Like me, he spun dependent on another, but he had no axis. He danced in the air, skimmed along the ground. I was colorful; he was light. He had no shine except freedom. Perhaps the breeze had fallen in love with his lightness.

I was resentful. The breeze spun with him—whom it called dandelion—and left. My heart broke, but the dandelion’s freedom occupied my thoughts.

The air grew cold. The lights lost their life. One day the sky collapsed. Thunder, rain, impact. A drop tore a piece from my body. Pain surged—but it reminded me I was alive. To survive, I spun with every blow.

The wind came. It dried me. That night I had nightmares.

A few days later, the storm arrived. I was torn from my axis. I spun wildly—terrified, yet free. One blade broke off. The rain fell again. I dropped to the ground. I dissolved into a puddle. Before falling apart, I understood that my spinning was over—not from exhaustion, but because I had spun my life to its end.

At midnight, under moonlight, my glitter caught a brief glow—a quiet farewell. Then everything faded into silence.

I was finished—but I had spun. Completely.

The next day, heavy snow fell. My last pieces were buried. When spring came, I flowed away with the water. One of my glitters settled on a yellow flower; it said it was a dandelion and that it knew me. One piece went to the river, another remained on a hill. I scattered in every direction, to experience everything again: waiting, abandonment, spinning, pain, pleasure, falling.