A spinning top eventually wobbles

I didn't expect to enjoy spinning a top as much as I did and for now--am. There is a simple satisfaction of separating this balanced object from my surprisingly matched fingers.
I've only spun this top about twenty times over a few days but as I watched this last spin I teetered at the threshold of what simpleness meant to me.

I immediately crafted a fantasy of the perfect and everlasting spin and that seeing this would feel magically pleasureable. It quickly became clear that it was the unexpected quirky spins and movements I enjoyed. Each dance depended on the moment and manner of release from my meat-mitt grip. I studied this machined wooden toy and realized it wasn't as perfect as the others strewn across the display. My eyes followed the rings that had been dissected from the massive tree it was plucked from as they wandered throughout. This tree must have grown against nature as it pressed them during deficient conditions and during abundance grown wider. This small piece now lay in my hand. We share life like this. This tree has left the forest and is with me as a small toy to be studied for a simple meaning under the depths of  my thought filled mind. The milled edge of this dual nibbed disk suffers a splitting wound  effortlessly plunging toward the center and the few spins upon the nib has already ground to a dull tip. Our individual blemishes influence the motion and bearing of each wandering path.

Each surface create the sounds of a short lived story. A hollow rumble from my desktop. A spry glee dropping into a groove of a wooden slab as it races to and fro until tiring and collapsing. It always loses confidence and tires when only a moment before seemed assured. I quietly champion this effort regardless of the eventual end. I silently cheer the dance. The dance being proof of what makes trying worth the end. The wobble, crashing, bumbling, and every now and then a gracefully poignant spinning which inevitably shudders to a halt.

Keep spinning this top.
Dance among the leaves.
Dance with the fire at your heals.
Dance awkwardly over the cold hard ice.
Never be perfect--but sometime, maybe from afar, someone will see the elegance of the lumbering and downtrodden wobbling through their cracks.

Some dances simply begin with a finger.