January 8, 2015
A cynical trip in supposed introversion regarding a look forward to personal denouement.
I was not a sponge as a child. I doubt that anyone is. My behavior, tendencies, and perhaps even quirks and misconceptions have all, for the most part, clung to me. This is unfortunate, and in fact, I wish I had been a sponge.
Right now, I am a sponge. I sit in class, among the band, and in the passenger seat of the car absorbing as much as I can, leaking minimally, but eventually I’ve taken in too much. I begin to divulge all that I have kept and to relieve me external forces squeeze, and then I am freed from all that I was taking burden of.
As the course of things would have it, I am not an actual sponge. Not because I am not sold for a dollar in packages of three and in vibrant hues, but because I, unlike a sponge, want to absorb, and pointedly, retain all that I take in. A sponge only desires to be a sponge. When I begin to leak it is in irritation over the yet again realization that I, like a sponge, with be nothing, ever, other than a sponge. This of course until I enter a new degree of the sponge. A used up sponge. At this point I will be discarded into the trash for having served my purpose all too well and gradually deteriorating.
This is another difference between myself and the sponge. The sponge has no desire to be anything other than a sponge because the sponge has obvious purpose. I obviously have no purpose and so I must take in and hold on to as much as I possibly can so that I might someday undergo a wonderfully altering metamorphosis and transition into something completely other than myself.
Said transition is my most debilitating aspiration for it is what I desire the most. I once said I wished I had been a sponge. This was not because a sponge is content to be a sponge, but because a sponge can easily return to a dry state of being. I have acquired many ideals, thoughts, and prone to judge thinking patterns that I wish I had not. How brilliant would it be to simply flush out all of these biases and prejudiced speculations to be a fresh, new sponge, vibrant in color, once again?
Under this logic one would think that a sponge could never become the ugly, grey squishy mass that needs to be thrown away. Not even true sponges can rid themselves of all of the obscenity they are submerged into, and nor can I.
This is why I too will eventually become used up and deteriorated, worthy of being thrown into the garbage. I used to feel that if I were unlike a sponge then I would be able to maintain all that I would gather. All knowledge, goodwill, health, and habits so that I could enter my metamorphosis. I still feel that if I could hold to such things the result would be incredulously glorious.
I see now that I was foolish in wishing to be a sponge, because I am a sponge, and just like any sponge the grime and filth I am prey of, or even just witness of, will seep into my pores. At some point of the course I will have gathered too much, the lewdness will have done too much damage, whatever I was before will have been completely eradicated. Necessity will have it that I be tossed into the trash.