Empty. That was the best way to describe the scene I was witnessing, void of anything considerably eye catching. It was a perfect reflection of my thoughts at that moment, completely barren of anything substantially interesting or discernibly valuable. It was a still-life devoid of anything that gave it breath, yet somehow, it persisted as the subject of my glare.
Empty. The perfect adjective to describe the three part structure of my mind, body, and soul. There was nothing left in me. Beyond the pointless connective tissue that contributed to the structural integrated of the meat-suit that I wore on a regular basis, there was nothing. The constant battle of my nine to five, my double lives, and the seemingly unobtainable goals that I reach for, had left me tired. They had left me…empty.
My reflection avoided eye contact with me at the outskirts of my peripheral vision, looking around nervously in the mirror, carrying the understanding that by looking at me, it would see nothing that was worth its time. It would see nothing but more emptiness.
The image faded in and out from a dull vibrance to the beautiful, inviting shades of black. Lethargy sat in my lap. Torpor sang into my ear. Drowsiness sat on my shoulders.
My subconscious tried to steal the image of the pomegranate tangerine soap from me, but I fought for it. A pugilistic trading of blows with my mind kept me awake to witness the utter nothingness of the partially emptied bottle. I found victory at the edge of the sink, where it sat. It was a victory that would lead to the engagement of the bottle to cleanse my hands of the emptiness of the room it occupied.
I finished. Struggling to stand, my mirrored reflection found the confidence to look me in my eye as I held tightly to the yellowed marble that gave stability to the pomegranate tangerine and to the weak, wobbly legs of my sleepless form. The refreshing feeling of cleanliness covered my hands in its welcoming warmth and sweet scent, washing away all that remained of that which I sat out to purge.
The deed was complete. The supple leather of my hands had dried back to their craggy, original texture. The room fell back into darkness. I stepped through its open portal, to leave the corridor, once again, empty.
This short story was totally about taking a poop. Good morning everybody!
“Oh, the places you’ll go!” — Dr. Seuss