Inevitable

There are things that will never have any bearing on anything remotely significant, but seem to contain their own movement. Like a single chip of ice, melting slowly but surely on a metal counter top, inching closer and closer to the edge. Reflecting the metal, the white room, the yellow light, it contains a world in itself. Inevitably it will melt before it can accomplish its lofty goal. And like the progression of things like this on earth, the water will pool, resolving in a quiet drip drop onto the floor, where the process can start again—this time in fluidity.