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My dear sponge, are we so different, you and I. We eat, sleep, and go about our daily lives, so does a sponge that lies there in the kitchen sink. We rot from the inside on a daily basis, so does the sponge. Times wear's us out, so does time wear out a sponge. What's so different between us and a sponge, it tries to survive as do we. As we struggle to make it through one more meal, so does the sponge struggle to make it through one more dish. Are we so significant in this world? Whether its education and knowledge we pursue, whether its money we pursue, or whether its power and control we pursue. We soak up all that life throws at us, as does the sponge. What's the point of it all? Is it to be recognized, adored, admired, remembered, loved or envied? Is that what life's about? We all tend to think of ourselves, as somewhat special. That life has a purpose, has a meaning. There is something unique about us, which makes us different from everyone else. The new house you buy, new car you lease, new suit you wear, nothing but a sponge trying to cover itself up. Life becomes such a routine, go through it so thoughtlessly, so passively. Sitting there, waiting for the weekend to come by, so we could enjoy ourselves. So the weekend is here, and we enjoyed ourselves, and we drank, we danced, we sang and we laughed, till we cried. Then what, the weekend has passed, and we are more rotten on the inside then a week ago. We are a bit more older, a bit more broke, bit more worn out, and none the wiser. You think to yourself, what else is there, we are all going to die someday, we might as well enjoy ourselves, while we can. Live life to the fullest, cherish every moment we have, but do we. Whether, were sitting in a class room, the board room, or the back of a truck, it all feels like were sitting in a waiting room. Swallowing up, as much knowledge the teacher throws at us, as many insults the boss can shower us with. We sit there and swallow, as does the sponge, sitting in the kitchen sink, swallowing up as much dirt as it can, only because it thinks that's what purpose it has. As boredom eats at us, can't help but tap your fingers on the solid surface it finds itself. Glancing at the watch, waiting for another weekend. It will be different this weekend; I'll be drinking more, dancing harder, singing louder, and appreciating my time a bit more. Like Zombies, time passes us by, and the weekend is here, life springs into action again, ohh the joy. So we drink more, dance harder and sing louder than before. The meals get bigger, and as such the dishes get bigger. As we try to swallow up more of life, so does the sponge. Tackling a bigger dish, in the midst of it all, over whelmed by how much it has swallowed up so far, the sponge finds itself torn. As I walk away from the sponge to replace it by a bigger, better sponge. I find myself dizzy, breathless, knees weaker. No one around, staring at the floor, trying to find a cleaner spot. As I collapse, wondering is this how it ends. The weekend is not here yet, it would have been better this time, I would have drank more, danced harder, and sang louder, appreciated time more. Will I be remembered, why not speaks the torn sponge lying next to me. You will be remembered as will I. |
