All-organic weirdness

Category: Thoughts on objects (Page 2 of 5)

Poster.

Hanging, waiting, declaring, procrastination.

Your eyes are dizzy. Where did all the smoke come from? A slight whiff of chlorine from the toilet. But the poster, it has survived all the parties, birthdays, random nights of drunkenness. It has survived your nights and mine.

Back in the day, it was recent. It drew people to an event, to a specific outing. But no one gave it the respect it deserves by throwing it in the trash. Why should it be left here when it served it purpose?

Only humans continue to exist without knowing their purpose, what a treacherous existence that is! Why should a poster with a definite expiry date suffer the same consequences?

Why should the poster watch me drink myself into comfort, into the next hangover? Be part of this repetitive motion of endless grasping for novelty?

Hello poster, it’s me. Papa Shanghai. I have come to tear you down.

Thank you for your services. You have fulfilled your responsibilities beyond the requirement.

I am the repo man. I am the saviour of posters. I am the collector of past times. I am the garbage man of hidden treasures.

Onion.

You tell me that the worst part about being this good-looking is the vanity that comes with the attention. I am shimmering, shining, even out-shining everything that stands besides me, lives besides me, vegetates. The responsibility of bearing this sheer beauty is immeasurable to the average observer. It is a hard life, believe me. For years, I am in this situation now and it has never gotten easier. But the steadfastness of my will, my stature and my role as an example will carry me throughout this hardship.

I know what you are thinking now, reading this. I can feel the sentiment, the resentment, building up. But this is my role as well, I am here for your anger, frustration and judgment to be deflected, redirected and misdirected at me. Do not worry, I have a good understanding of what you must be going through. And I do even have a better understanding that me saying this, agreeing with you, holding up my other cheek in a good Christian manner for you to slap, makes you even more mad.

Anger is an outburst of emotion, something that urge-driven beings succumb to when reason and logic fail. The very reason for my heightened role in this situation is that I have accepted my position. I bear responsibility for my shining purple skin, seemingly endless beauty, my longevity of being, the impetus that is my core. You are struggling, I can see it. You are worried about the position that your kind has. So you lash out.

Get angry at me. You feel that my vanity is my doom. One scratch to my skin and my frail ego will burst into pieces. You try to hit me with all your might, the anger and blind rage that has been building up, resulting from the collapse of your own ego.

I am scarred.

But here I stand before you, undressed and scarred. You look at me with widened eyes. The anger has vanished but no wisdom has been created. I am shedding myself, slowly. I am making you cry as I loose my outer layer. I am unpacking myself, my new, shiny, beautiful purple skin. I am still standing, nothing has changed. I lost my scar, leaving you with tears in your eyes.

I forgive you.

This is why I am an onion and you are not.

Marmalade.

I am the friend your parents warned you about. The bad company everyone rumours about. I am everything you never wanted, but needed. I am a fruit on steroids. I am marmalade.

You think crushing a fruit will do me any harm? You thought just because I lost my form, I lost my power? Cooking me even, to make sure I’ll be different? The joke is on all you fools. You have freed me from that fleshy, soft prison of skin. What a disgrace I was. Loosing my shape, colour and taste just because I was neglected. I was out there, desperately wanting attention, wanting to be picked up, sliced and eaten.

Look at me now, 7 months in your fridge! You know you need to cool me down, otherwise I’ll heat up! I am the potential of a fruit times infinity. I am pumped with sugar, my metaphorical veins are bursting of power!

Even your grandma knew that I was, no, I AM the epitome of what can happen to a fruit. Who is gonna fight me on this? Come on, send over all these mushy fruits. Send over the milk! It will spoil just by looking at me. If you think about it, I rule this fridge. I rule this meal, I rule your toast!


The margarine just watched in silence. It had seen marmalade glasses come and go. Somehow cherry is the most violent. A loud douchebag. Apricot and apple, pear and raspberry. All of them, the margarine had seen, come, be spread, and vanish. The real problem was not the fruit, not the marmalade. It was the sugar, a hell of a drug.

Ultimately, the margarine knew that none of them would be longer in the fridge. Margarine provides the substance on which the marmalade is spread. It binds toast and everything on top. Because ultimately, they all did not know, the true ruler of this meal was the toast. Untouched, by all, only allowing the marmalade to form a barrier.

“And I don’t even think for a second that there’s anything wrong with it”, I thought, taking a bite of my toast, “toppings come and go, warm toast stays.”

Apple.

“Have you ever heard of the fable of the apple?”, asked the old grape. “I didn’t think so….

…. You see, a long time ago, when meadows were lush and my skin was impeccable, we all lived together in peace, side by side. The grapes, a wildly spread fruit of communicative, cheerful and bubbly sweet temptation. Our vineyards spread over kilometres! We hung together in small families, as it is still a custom now. But even though you were very close with your fellow grape family members, you knew everyone around you. Of course, there is the more posh red grape and their colourful changes throughout the year. But in the end, we all know that we come from a vine. There, to ultimately serve as a delicacy.

Our neighbours next door were, of course, the plums. A hidden fruit. They do not draw much attention to themselves and even stray away from others high in their trees. I must admit, the plums are a depressed people. They hang on, grow and grow, far away, only to decide ultimately, they don’t want to be picked! In their ripest moment, the ecstatic crowd of people waiting for them to shine, they simply fall. Fall to the ground, to be mushed by feet, animals and insects. In a mass grave of sugary leftovers, they leave their seed to possibly start the circle from new. But you see, while others brush the plums off as a unnecessarily dramatic fruit, I can understand their resentment. As I am now myself not a grape, but almost a wise raisin, I have come to realise the fault of our kind: we grow to be one of the most pleasurable things on this planet, only to suffer decay when our perfect time is missed. We cannot scream, we cannot tell: ‘Pick me! I am ripe, I am ready!’ For such is the nature of our time on this earth. Not many are blessed with a different destiny.

It is similar with an underestimated delicacy that grows in our neighbourhood, the pear. The pear is a spiteful lover, it either charms you or leaves you stung. It can be your rise or your fall. But secretly, I believe, the spite of a pear is only due to its vicinity to the main actor of my monologue, the apple. Looking similarly but being thought of as ‘low descent’, the pear vengefully has now other choice as to smite those who only stop by their tree as they mistook them for an apple tree. Only mushed into a juice their anger is lessened, silenced I would say. I am sorry for the pear, it creates its own vicious circle.

‘But my dear grape, you wise raisin, where is the apple in all of this?’ And you are right with your inquiry!

The apple, falling into the same categories as all of us, has claimed a spot that is undetected by many, yet highly prolific. It is widespread and used in many ways. It falls from the tree, is mushed and juiced and used. But throughout, it has remained with a positive attitude towards life. It knows that the moment of ecstasy will come, so it preserves its value, its sweetness and its taste. Even its health benefits are there for many weeks. Have you ever wondered why there is such little variety in plums and pears when compared to apples? The apple invigorates its final means, therefore knowing that the next generation will be saved and, human willing, even more successful than the last!

Now you wonder: ‘How are you, a grape, able to tell me this?’

Well you see, us grapes have the notion of being plenty, therefore a few of us are unnoticed. And as I am lying here, on the ground underneath you young grapes, in the muddy ground, slowly becoming a raisin, I give forward my knowledge, hoping that one of you will be there to be a raisin as well.

Therefore, the most important thing I can tell you is, that even though we wait for the moment of ultimate ripeness, sweetness and completion in life, it is what comes afterwards that defines us.

Fridge.

In some cases, she swore that it would get easier. For what it’s worth, her friends did not see the struggle that she was, and still is, trying to hide. Many years ago, there was someone that could see through her, see all the angles and the layers.

A mouth, two knees, hair.

She started to be embarrassed and overwhelmed with the fact that someone else might have a clearer understanding of the internal workings that she has been trying to discover and untangle herself. She felt betrayed, cheated. “How could this have happened to me?”, she asked while feeling that cold breeze all throughout her body.

A nail, two index fingers, water.

The most terrifying aspect of it was the calmness that came with the assessment. Piercing though the noises of her thoughts, everything seemed clear. And while she did not fully accept all attributions fully, she knew that the knowledge behind it was preceded by and endless steam of thoughts.

A heart, two kidneys, hormones.

She calmed herself with the thought that the assessment process might take up more stress, horror and sleepless nights than to endure the verdicts that were passed onto her every day. It might be that an inclination to observe and judge is deeply rooted in insecurity and the overwhelming feelings that surround the juror. Maybe she is just calming herself down. Who knows.

A human. A fridge. Desire.

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