Post by ImperialRedDragon on Mar 4, 2008 20:00:12 GMT -5
The nights had grown long and cold. The pain, brobdinagian in stature. The days, countless in number and eternal in size. The difficulty of the journey alone, measurable only by way of aleph numbers - some orders of cardinality of infinity itself.
It was not long ago that I was like any other young man. I was typical, talented but flawed, full of potential yet ever aware of disaster. The reality of the outside world, far distant from that which I had grown to know. I was, most certainly, not unlike any other fresh-faced adult.
Unfortunately, some 16 days ago, the universe rolled a set of dice, and they came out against me. Like protesters at a funeral, I was unable to make the gods of chance leave. They existed, by their own designs and within their own minds, with purpose. The specific purpose, however, changed with each and every vibration of each and every particle that comprised their being.
A metered dosing cup, produced by and packaged with, the makers of a NyQuil-brand cough and cold remedy, was tipped. The haze of illness and a sudden deficit of free histamine receptors, coupled with a severe anticholinergic reaction, had left me weak. I felt ill. It fell down. No one spoke. No one knew. How could we?
The dice, for all their good and all their evil, had been rolled. Like a drunk gambling on the streets, I would not discover their outcome until I was bereft of all I had.
It flushed. The aqueous, bleach-filled liquid gurgled and sputtered, and it was gone. Never again would I find that last measure of sanity in my life. 30 milliliters, volumetrically and comparatively speaking, is not a large quantity. I thought that then. That was another time. The world was different, and I was a different man. I have lived ten lives since.
Had I known then what I currently know, I would have run. I would have taken flight until my wings could not carry me any farther. I would run until my sinew and musculature tore from the bone. I would crawl until my arms bled. I would roll until my torso rent itself apart from my lower half.
Within 11 short days, my world fell apart. The ceramic filled and overfilled, and I would bring it back. It was not unlike trying to save the dead. Defibrillate, and they are back for just a moment. You can look into their eyes. You can see life, and just as quickly, you can see it fall away. You can feel hope and despair within the same breath.
I pressed onward. I'd like to say I fought the good fight, that the sum total of my efforts were not in vain. Eventually, you must let an old friend pass. It is selfish not to. After a point, you must release the spirit to the world. You must say goodbye and pray for forgiveness. I held it in my arms and wept. The tears streamed down my face and mixed with the murky water. I stayed until the sun fell. At long last, I succumbed to sleep's siren song.
I tried to live without my friend. I had to. There was simply nothing more I could have done. My friend would have wanted it that way. Had you known it, you would agree. I could make new friends, I thought. There are millions more in the world. Similar engineering, same materials, same two hydrogens bonded to a single oxygen atom coursing through its veins, beating within its heart.
I failed. I could not live without my best friend. 16 days post-incident, I dined on compressed rices and raw meats. I hurried home, eager to tell my friend about the night's experiences and adventures. I was met, as had come to be the norm, with its corpse. It did not rise to greet me. It did not shout a cheerful hello. It lay there, its lifeless shell unmoving, unflowing with all the life I had known.
I snapped. I could not live this way. It was either my friend came back that very night, or I would join it.
There are times within humanity's proud history that have rocked it at its most fundamental level. The earth shakes, shatters, and turns on its side. On that night, I set the world aflame.
I worked tirelessly. I refused to give up. My triceps, deltoids, and pectoral muscles burned and ached with every motion. I could not breathe. I did not care. I would not give up. I was rewarded. Suddenly, it sputtered, almost inaudibly at first. I kept my hopes low. Surely, I could not beat death. Countless had tried. All had failed. The tiny sputter grew to a roar, and my friend coughed the final reminder of its prior demise.
Like phlegm from the mouth of a giant, it covered me head to toe. Viscous and forcefully pungent, I became ill. My friend greeted me. I greeted back. It was true, then. I had done it. Death was no longer an inevitability. I had conquered it. On that day, it might have been merely number two, but I was number one.
I cleaned its face until it shone white and glistened with renewed life. Its once cracked and dirty porcelain looked happy, peaceful. I promised never to leave it again. The dinner I had that night would assure me of such. I have not yet broken that promise.
This is a dirge for all the overworked, underloved toilets in the world. It is a poem for hope. It is a call to action. I have seen stars twinkle and fade out, luminate and disappear. I have watched microscopic entities of life enter the world only to die. I have seen universes beyond understanding, and I have understood their ends. My name is IRD, and I held hands at the edge of eternity with my toilet.
It was not long ago that I was like any other young man. I was typical, talented but flawed, full of potential yet ever aware of disaster. The reality of the outside world, far distant from that which I had grown to know. I was, most certainly, not unlike any other fresh-faced adult.
Unfortunately, some 16 days ago, the universe rolled a set of dice, and they came out against me. Like protesters at a funeral, I was unable to make the gods of chance leave. They existed, by their own designs and within their own minds, with purpose. The specific purpose, however, changed with each and every vibration of each and every particle that comprised their being.
A metered dosing cup, produced by and packaged with, the makers of a NyQuil-brand cough and cold remedy, was tipped. The haze of illness and a sudden deficit of free histamine receptors, coupled with a severe anticholinergic reaction, had left me weak. I felt ill. It fell down. No one spoke. No one knew. How could we?
The dice, for all their good and all their evil, had been rolled. Like a drunk gambling on the streets, I would not discover their outcome until I was bereft of all I had.
It flushed. The aqueous, bleach-filled liquid gurgled and sputtered, and it was gone. Never again would I find that last measure of sanity in my life. 30 milliliters, volumetrically and comparatively speaking, is not a large quantity. I thought that then. That was another time. The world was different, and I was a different man. I have lived ten lives since.
Had I known then what I currently know, I would have run. I would have taken flight until my wings could not carry me any farther. I would run until my sinew and musculature tore from the bone. I would crawl until my arms bled. I would roll until my torso rent itself apart from my lower half.
Within 11 short days, my world fell apart. The ceramic filled and overfilled, and I would bring it back. It was not unlike trying to save the dead. Defibrillate, and they are back for just a moment. You can look into their eyes. You can see life, and just as quickly, you can see it fall away. You can feel hope and despair within the same breath.
I pressed onward. I'd like to say I fought the good fight, that the sum total of my efforts were not in vain. Eventually, you must let an old friend pass. It is selfish not to. After a point, you must release the spirit to the world. You must say goodbye and pray for forgiveness. I held it in my arms and wept. The tears streamed down my face and mixed with the murky water. I stayed until the sun fell. At long last, I succumbed to sleep's siren song.
I tried to live without my friend. I had to. There was simply nothing more I could have done. My friend would have wanted it that way. Had you known it, you would agree. I could make new friends, I thought. There are millions more in the world. Similar engineering, same materials, same two hydrogens bonded to a single oxygen atom coursing through its veins, beating within its heart.
I failed. I could not live without my best friend. 16 days post-incident, I dined on compressed rices and raw meats. I hurried home, eager to tell my friend about the night's experiences and adventures. I was met, as had come to be the norm, with its corpse. It did not rise to greet me. It did not shout a cheerful hello. It lay there, its lifeless shell unmoving, unflowing with all the life I had known.
I snapped. I could not live this way. It was either my friend came back that very night, or I would join it.
There are times within humanity's proud history that have rocked it at its most fundamental level. The earth shakes, shatters, and turns on its side. On that night, I set the world aflame.
I worked tirelessly. I refused to give up. My triceps, deltoids, and pectoral muscles burned and ached with every motion. I could not breathe. I did not care. I would not give up. I was rewarded. Suddenly, it sputtered, almost inaudibly at first. I kept my hopes low. Surely, I could not beat death. Countless had tried. All had failed. The tiny sputter grew to a roar, and my friend coughed the final reminder of its prior demise.
Like phlegm from the mouth of a giant, it covered me head to toe. Viscous and forcefully pungent, I became ill. My friend greeted me. I greeted back. It was true, then. I had done it. Death was no longer an inevitability. I had conquered it. On that day, it might have been merely number two, but I was number one.
I cleaned its face until it shone white and glistened with renewed life. Its once cracked and dirty porcelain looked happy, peaceful. I promised never to leave it again. The dinner I had that night would assure me of such. I have not yet broken that promise.
This is a dirge for all the overworked, underloved toilets in the world. It is a poem for hope. It is a call to action. I have seen stars twinkle and fade out, luminate and disappear. I have watched microscopic entities of life enter the world only to die. I have seen universes beyond understanding, and I have understood their ends. My name is IRD, and I held hands at the edge of eternity with my toilet.