It is strange to me that this billowing feeling erupts from moments of contact with an inanimate object. I do not feel anything near this sort of release when I attempt to fraternize with my roommates. It is something born solely of this object. When I destroy this ball (which I will do, I cannot help myself. Without my knowing my teeth sink into its soft center, my nails rip at its edges), I will be destroying a fundamental aspect of myself, but I will also be freeing myself from the tethers of attachment. Of materialism.
This destruction is more good than bad, I believe, because the feelings I have about this ball resemble not slightly love, adoration, dedication.... And what does this ball feel? Nothing. It is not capable of emotion. It does not pine for me to roll it across the laminate. It does not think of me when I am gone.
And yet, perhaps this relationship is the best variety. My ball will never leave or forsake me. It will never die, although I slowly tear it apart.
I fear I am only capable of loving objects.