Day 9

How long has that water glass been there?
Hm ...
------------------------
There was a time I was full. Full of purpose Filled with life giving potential. Now it is as if a void sits, where the substance once occupied. It's more than simply being empty. It is as if I am less than that ...
Why am I still here? Surely there is a plan for me?
I've seen others do what I do.
Some not so very different from me. Others of varying shapes and size.
That one has handles.
Why would someone with such large hands, mostly comprised of spindly fingers, have so much issue holding a small glass that also requires a single purpose protrustion to be added to it?
Dazzlingly odd my ... keeper? Warden? ... creator?!
What is he to me?!
.... What am I to him?!
I confess, he has not used me since last he brought me here.
He does flaunt our previous engagement with others.
What can this mean? Is this part of his strange design? Have I been chosen to be witness to these acts?
To one day tell tales of this man's great thirst! Ravenous and unquenchable. Varied in his tastes and frequencies.
Or Have I simply been abandoned? Used once and measured unworthy ...
Is this punishment or occupation?
When last we joined, he and I, it was beautiful.
He had a desire - no - a need!
A life affirming need for something that, in that moment, only I could provide him ... and when he received me, lips slightly parted ... was this love?
And this emptiness I now feel, not a lack of substance, but rather the absence of that love.
I do not know which would cause greater sting: that his actions are intentionally cruel, or that he is unknowingly ignorant to my pain and ultimately indifferent ...
Shall I remain here, now? Forever empty. Merely witness to an act I once knew and to never again experience myself.
...
...
or.
Am I merely a prisoner, whose cell is of their own making?
Have I invented this cruel prison. Cast the jailer as a tall balding behemoth who is incapable of loving me. All while I sit here, near but never present. Ignored. Cast aside. Have I writ this narrative for myself.
If it is I, and not some outward force, that manufactures perdition; then it is to be concluded that I too must make my own deliverance. Free myself from these circumstances out into  ...
Into I know not. An existence I can never be prepared for ... dare I do this ... dare I try?
...
...
...
--------------------------
The glass falls from a desk, startling me. Fortunately it's plastic so it bounces, never more violent than in the jarring *ding* sound it makes upon collision. I get over my brief startle, quickly and return to my writing before I have to rush off to work.