Hello Trash bin,
My best friend. The one who always was there, whenever I came back. Here I come. One more time. Thanks for waiting for me this time, like you wait everytime. This time is the last time, though. This time I don’t come to you with a bowed head and half-singed feathers like Icarus. This time I did not lose my self-respect, my self-worth, my time or my energy. This time I am contented trash. I have lost my heart and soul to someone worthier than me. I come to you because you’re my refuge at the end of the day. I come because I had nothing more in me left to be offered. I don’t come to you like last time with tears and a muddy face and bruises on my elbow. I come to you beaming in radiance like an accomplished trash.
I have been specially routed here because becoming trash is a beautiful process. We are all born fresh-smelling, edible and mouth-watering. We get wrapped in little boxes with pink satin ribbons around them. We peep and grope in expectation waiting to be picked up by the right hands. We want to be tasted like lip-smacking wares. We want to melt in mouths and descend deeper into someone’s experience. We don’t want to be spat out in disgust or remain undigested. We don’t want to be licked on the surface like either walls of a cream biscuit. We don’t want to be spewed or excreted in an untoward manner. Anything unnatural shakes our integrity up. We want to be natural trash.
If I was born a feather and the bird shook me off indifferently, I would be hurt. Then, if I were to land inside a man’s ear, I would be disgusted. The purpose of my existence would be crushed. But..trash bin, in your haste don’t conclude I am one of your other occupants. I am not yesterday’s newspaper. I am not a broken glass. I am not a rotten egg. Be proud. I am one of your little children who has come to you in full splendour – as trashed as trash can be.
I am not stupid like a banana peel nor ignored like that old man. Nor am I suppressed, oppressed or tragic trash. I am loved , contented ..needed in the bin because I am all used up, just like trash should be. So let me come to you dear old bin, and sleep in your crevices because I have been sent here not as trash but as a memory, for later retrieval, as a reminder for future records. Give me my little space where I can crouch before I am swallowed by your depths. This time I wont seek to wake up again and go out for someone else who will take me. This is time I am used up. Contented. Served my purpose. Unrecyclable. I flew my flights as a feather. I am this mess of gooey wax because, as a candle, I made a difference.
We are all trash out here. Some of us think we are people. Some of think we are wanted people. Some of us think we are important people. At the end of the day, trash bin dear, you are our refuge. We will come to you feeling loved and warm, like coming back home to be swallowed by your unconditional, all-consuming mouth and feel at ease with fellow trash. Really, I am not sure if any other fellow-trash of mine received such honour as I did of being sent to you with extreme care and brimming tears, but among all trash I feel insurmountably superior.
Here I come. Once again to your cozy depths.
With lots of warmth and love