I just finished wiping up a giant mess, sure the bench is nice and clean now, but now I’m filthy and not even a washing machine can save me. Plop, great... I just got thrown out. Ew I think another dirty chux just touched me.
The trash is a scary place, it’s cold, dark, pungent and full of things that are too hard to deal with. The place where the unwanted goes before it’s buried, burnt or made into something else. As a chux, I’ve spent my whole life making things shine, I used to be proud of what I did, and my ultimate happiness exuded from my porous exterior when I saw the fruits of my labour literally gloss back at me. Yes! My life purpose was fulfilled daily and I would only wish my other chux friends the same fate should they ever be chosen from the packet we’re wrapped in after birth. It’s like waiting in line for the gods to take us to our duty. Sometimes we all place bets as to who will end up on top of the packet after a bumpy journey from one shelf to another.
Naivety got the better of me though, I’m forced to admit it now that I’m laying here in the darkness, sodden in stenches of the discarded. I was caught off guard once when the cupboard door opened, the cold outside light almost blinded me as I saw a friend of mine hanging from the hand of a god, disheveled and dirty. She had lost her luminosity and her vibrant face, now a torn mess of overused enthusiasm. The godly hand grabbed me, and my crisp folds were quickly dampened as I watched my hopeful friend being tossed into the container where I now lay.
I didn’t understand what was in there. Denial comforted me as I pushed aside the thought of what happened to her. I’d never seen anything like it, please don’t tell me I will look like that too. I was worried but excited to finally exercise my calling. As I mentioned earlier, I spent my days bringing shine into the world and I couldn’t be happier. Little did I know, every shine I gave out, I lost a little shine of my own. I never thought that maybe I too needed a bit of shine after my job was done. Too late now though, it’s not like I can warn my friends in the packets. The only thing I can do is hope I get made into something else and then I can alarm the others in my new form, scattered in little fibres amongst the shelves, spreading the word like a virus. We must look after each other, I bet the gods never saw this one coming!
** Stories of stuff