Fantasy in a minor

 Beautiful, fantastical story told by five suffering souls. I love books that ache, but in a dreamy light way, like floating on a rain cloud. I highly recommend it.

Diurnal Urinal

Everyone reaches the point in their life were they say, "I can't live like this anymore." Maybe it happens everyday, wakes them up like a whiff of coffee percolating not far off. Let's say it happens only twice a year; connected to the poles of the earth, a biannual flip flop for solstice celebration. Or perhaps it happen only once in a lifetime---an earthquake that opens a chasm that can never be closed. Does it matter how many? Are they all different, or the same? Do they come from the same place? Does the child who's secret love has kissed yet another boy on the playground, and never him, feel the same as the alcoholic who crashes his car through the center divider? Is it the same pain, the same gaping inability to see God in that solitary moment. And I bet you're sitting there saying, "No, no, they're not the same; of course one is different, some are worse, some are better. Some get better, some get worse."

And I say,"Yes!"to all of that. But, all that begins in the moment after. Whether one changes their life, or lives through their life, or dies right then and there; that all comes after that prickly gnawing feeling in the middle of your abdomen. Like a tiny hedgehog took to hibernating beneath the ribs, and now that fuzzy, sharp little fellow is opening up right there, right inside. After that feeling comes the decision to change, or move, or do nothing. But in that one moment, I think we all feel the same. We're bound together by a common thought wave descending from our Mother Eve. She was the first to feel the pull. She took that bite because she couldn't live like that anymore. Her gut told her that everything she knew was a shell; she was just a doll, and she wanted so badly to be real. And so she bit down; she threw away her shell so that she could feel pain, so that she could love, and so she could experience that final moment where she would say, one last time, "I can't live like this anymore." One final scary moment separate from God before her spirit left her body; refined to too fine a material for a life like this.

We are all the same, and we are all different. We all go up, we must all come down. My moment will never change me in the exact same way the moment changes anyone else. We many never share the same joy, or wallow in the same depths of sorrow, but I am almost sure that each breaking point, for one infinitesimal moment, is exactly the same.

I don't know that any of that matters; but it made me feel squiggly inside today, none the less.