Tonight's journey will take you nowhere.
And in that nowhere,
There is a drawer.
Inside,
Spoons.
So many spoons.
More than any household realistically needs.
But no one ever throws a spoon out.
There are teaspoons.
There are dessert spoons.
And then the soup spoon.
Enormous,
Self-important.
It knows it's technically part of the set,
But emotionally it's distant.
You pick up a spoon,
It's medium cold.
Neutral in all possible ways.
You briefly consider your reflection in its shiny bowl.
You look a bit like a stretched out potato,
But a dignified one.
You place it back slightly off-kilter,
A quiet act of chaos.
The other spoons feel the shift.
They say nothing,
But they know.
There's one spoon that looks slightly different.
No one knows where it came from.
It might be from a holiday rental,
Or from the void.
Who knows?
Everyone has a rogue spoon.
This one just appeared,
And now it lives here,
Quietly resented by the original set.
You begin to count the spoons,
1,
2,
3,
4,
5,
6,
No,
Maybe 7,
It doesn't matter.
You start again,
1,
2,
3,
4,
5,
6,
7,
8,
9,
10,
11,
12,
13,
14,
15,
16,
17,
18,
19,
20,
You're not even halfway through and your brain starts buffering.
Were you at 12?
Or just thinking about the number 12?
Either way,
The spoons remain.
So many.
Too many.
You consider giving them names,
But immediately regret it.
But sleep gently interrupts.
You never find out how many spoons there were.
You give up.
It's peaceful.
And now,
So too do you lie down.
You are the spoon.
The drawer is life.
Nothing more will happen,
And that's okay.
Sleep well.
