A Curious Old Thing

For years, almost too long to count, it stood upon hallowed ground. Its predecessor usurped, a gnarly old leather thing done in by too many years of torture, the work of feline adversaries, the newcomer began its reign of nearly a score. But time is unkind to such things, and soon the champion grew ragged and tough. It had become a legend of the room, but in the end such things are of little consequence. Not in cruelty, not in wrath, the reaper came; an angel visited this gray path and took the thing away. It was stolen off in secret, to lead a life of temporary exile before being tossed aside as the garbage it was regarded as. In its place sat not just one, but two pretenders to the throne.

When at last came the end of the thing’s brief banishment, instead of fading away as planned, it returned in triumph. The two usurpers were tossed aside and the thing reclaimed its place of honor upon the rusted plain. But this was not the moment of joy it seemed to be.

Its subjects, tired of the twin bumbling charlatans that had replaced the thing, welcomed it back with open arms; but in its glory they hated it all the more. During its displacement, it had grown weaker still. A treasonous bile was building just below the surface, as they continued to honor it with their presence, while at the same time flirting with newer and better things. At last it was almost replaced, but fate stepped in to spare the thing. With two failed attempts to unseat it, its tyrannical grip was absolute. Finally, its subjects’ mettle hardened by defiance, the thing was overthrown.

Now it sits alone in darkness, divided against itself. Exposed to the cold and the elements, it awaits its fate. Will it be delivered to a new domain, until the very fibers of its being finally yield to the wretched claws of age? Or will it be carried away to parts unknown to anguish in obscurity until the cold, bitter end? It is not my place to judge, though that does seem to be the position I have found myself in. Here I sit, upon the tarnished crimson plains, looking out at another world, a distant lonely world. Its dark winds tease upon my face, and they are cold. Looking out, I cannot help but feel a longing for that master which for so long supported me and those closest to me. It does not deserve this. Yet it was I alone who violently plucked it from its place of resting, throwing it to the merciless winds of circumstance. The emptiness is staggering, as I await the thing’s replacement. Though I look to the future, I refuse to close that portal to the outside world. I want to feel the chill upon face. The cold seems to be personified by its ill will, impotently slashing at my face with all the fury of a handful of feathers. Once it is carried away to its own fate, I will be glad, but I will not look away, I will not turn away. I will feel it. I will make myself feel it.

By the way, I totally got a new couch today.