If the little girl won’t swing, who will? Her elders won’t swing but they’ll tell her of the times they did. Her friends won’t swing because they all like dolls and boys better than squeaky swing sets in nearby abandoned parks. The boys won’t swing, they ‘have better things to do’ like breaking hearts and hiding behind goal posts and immature jokes.
Her dog won’t swing, she is troubled by the high pitched cacophony that the swings squeal to her in. Her cat won’t swing, but it’s not like she has one. Her teddy bear won’t swing, she guarantees that the only place he likes is in her arms. Her books won’t swing, they only have potential energy that won’t help in swinging for long without exerting that futile push. Her choice of inanimate objects won’t swing, she has learnt that they can’t.
The girl knows no one else is in line to swing, so why don’t the others understand? It doesn’t matter to her whether someone is by her side or pushing her, whether it’s dark or not; what matters to her is that she’s fulfilling the purpose of existence. Both her’s and the swings’.

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