Each morning, as you balance your fragile self in vertical alignment upon a round surface, supported by laws of gravity taken to be as universally sanctioned as the thoughtless act of breathing all the time, it falls. It falls soundlessly carving edges of transient, notional space into the eternal flow of heaven-sent light. It falls. It falls quite inconsequentially to trace a trajectory of angular displacement through the day. 

You begin a day. You succumb to the powers of the two hands going around within a symmetrical geometrical pattern. It remains fallen. As fallen as ever. Falling is not its choice, neither is it destiny. The shadow, you see, is far too unimportant to lay claims on the divine concept of preordained existence. It falls, because it exists. Falling is its way of being. Choice or chance is the playfield for theorists and philosophers. 

It falls today, because it is. It will fall tomorrow too, because it will be. Be in silence, assimilating the pain and bewilderment of existence.