The Orange

The orange was, well, orange and round. It sat unmoving in the centre of the table and I watched it. The inanimate object sat and stayed inanimate and I was disappointed. This orange had such life blooming from its peel yet it could not show it. Could not move or jump about. The orange was frozen in it inanimate state. Inert. Like an un-reactive gas it did not react. Did not react to the exciting sounds or smells, did not smell the air or listen to the music. Or, if it did, it did not react. Un-reactive. Inert.
I could help myself no longer I extended a long, thin finger and prodded the orange gently. It rocked slowly, at once animate. But within seconds it had settled and was once again inert. I prodded the round object again, harder this time, and, this time it rolled. Racing across the table, the only athlete in a great running, rolling, race.
The orange rolled, and rolled until it fell from the table where it bounced. Once. Twice. Before landing motionless on the ground and lying there still. It did not pick itself up, dust of its metaphorical, orange knees. It lay still, as if its pride had been hurt by the fall and it would once again have nothing to do with motion.
Finally, after having watched the spherical orange object for far to long, I pick it up from its landing spot on my kitchen floor and peeled its tough skin from its pulpy flesh. Biting into the object provoked no thoughts of guilt. It was only an inanimate object after all.