Sinister

“Take a drink.”

It occurs to me now, for the first time, that I cannot remember having ever studied the native language of coffee mugs. How fortunate that I seem to know it, anyhow. Perhaps I was something else in a past life? Ahh, yes, an image is becoming clear to me: I was once as you are – fleshy, weak, tragic. Now, I am simply thirst. I think that... I should like a drink, now. I feel slightly empty of myself.

“Put me to your lips, and take a drink. Just a single sip. You can be you again...”

You are truly gracious, mug. Gracious? I confess I don't remember gracious, but I feel that it should be pleasant – like a warm, soothing bath... whatever that might be. Yes, a gentle trickle down my spine is exactly what I need to feel just right as rain. That would be splendid, indeed. Oh, but please, don't touch me there; it makes my eyes water. And, my, my throat is ever so dry.

I take a drink, and nothing. I should have known better; these things, oh, they always lie when I am thirsty, the jackals. Such funbags, they, or so the inanimates always say. I think I'll just put one in my pocket for later, then. One never knows when one might need a coffee mug to lie just so, so says I.

“Gallons of ink, and you're still not not-still-dead? Take a different drink, and ponder, wonder, wander where you must until you wake up in your bed.”

It made perfect sense to me, so I did exactly that. In my defense, it was all a simple miscommunication from the very beginning. How could I have known what I am, in light of what I was told I was? Understanding myself was not my responsibility!

None of this was my fault.