|
A lot of people use me for just what I am. A crossing light button. That's right. I get pushed, send a signal over to the other side of the street, and the people follow the flashing green man to the other side.
That's the only thing I've ever known, the other side of the street. I have no idea what's behind me, because the post I'm attached to, blocks my view. But I've heard of it. Not only that, but of everything. The people share a lot of information with the objects surrounding them. We hear everything. Not only do we hear what people say, but - I'll let you in on a bit of restricted information - we can feel their energy, what they're thinking, what their body is shouting out to the world, but is held back by their conscious. The power of the wholeness of the Universe - or something. I'm not quite sure what causes this. But I retain everything, like a huge hard drive. It sits in my molecules, waiting for someone else to come by and pick it up. And I can stir up trouble. |
Most of the energy I pick up is quite drab, really. Deadline pressure, stress, even boredom. I get rid of this crap as quickly as the light changes and the next person pushes me against my sensor. Zap! It's gone. Hopefully they know how to deal with it better than I did. Every once in a while something is picked up that's new. Unexpected.
A sunny fall afternoon had come to my part of the neighborhood once again; the sun was sitting in the lower part of the sky sending its rays directly at me, so I was quite the hot little piece of molded metal. Bunches of people were out enjoying the summer air and doing normal everyday, expected things. I was too busy noticing the normality of the afternoon to notice her. It wouldn't have done any good anyway. I can't suddenly duck out of the way when someone goes to push me, like a drunk at four o'clock in the morning. Believe me, I've tried to avoid that, but I'm inanimate. I just sit there, feeling woosey for three hours until some early bird comes and takes the energy from me, and wonders an hour later why they can't work. |
|
She had just stepped out of a Mercedes S-series. Wearing a white dress, that she pulled down over her hips, wrapping around her statuette body like a second coating of wax, she adjusted her bra under the dress, making sure that it held its entire contents. She moved like a Lamborghini takes corners, confident, smooth, and fast. She was upon me before I could send the last signal to the flashing green man. I doubt any of the men standing at the corner cared that the light came late.
So she pushed the button. And the energy hit me instantly. Like the first time I had someone touch me who was eating chocolate, or holding hands on a first date. She had just done something, something that made me quiver uncontrollably in my socket. If anyone had been looking at me, it would of been the first recorded time that a crossing light button shook in its place. I didn't know what it was, but it was more intense than any sun's ray, more intense than any stench that a dog could leave behind, more intense than any hail storm's fury, and for once I wanted to be part of that thing called human. |
I held on to that one for a while, enjoying it's energy until it was long past its prime. I didn't know what I expected to do with it; I could never enjoy it fully. So I finally gave it away to some random stranger on a winter's morning.
I don't miss it. That man made good use of it I've heard. He became president later on. I always feel like I had a little play on his win. It doesn't seem to take much to make it big in the human world. As for me, I think I'll just hang out and do a little wishing to the Wholeness of the Universe. There's always a slight chance that next time around I could come back as a bra. [Instructor’s comment: Absolutely wonderful, Murray. If I could be as witty and intelligent as this one, I wouldn’t mind coming back as a crossing button! 30/25] |