Objects

I often like to imagine that raindrops are sentient, that they live ordinary, comfortable lives up in the clouds. Then, one day, the fluffy white ground just opens up underneath them. One minute they are relaxing with their raindrop families watching shit raindrop tv… then WOOSH! Down they go, screaming all the way. I find this comforting.

It’s fun to think about how different life would be if everything was sentient. Think about how many random objects in your room have watched you masturbate? Think about all the computers, and all the stuff we type into them. Imagine if they were judging us. How confident would you feel in a world like that?

The bathroom tiles have eyes, everything has eyes. You’re being watched from every angle. Every time you brush your teeth, your toothbrushes screams for help are muffled as you jam it into your filthy, bacteria infested maw. Traumatising the towel every time you drape it around your wet, naked body with its consent.

You might rationalise to yourself with cast iron reasoning like… “No, it’s fine! Everything in life has a purpose! The objects are just fulfilling theirs!” But the purpose of sand is not glass. The purpose of the timber tree is not to make chairs. Imagine the paving stones yelping out in agony as they are crushed underfoot every day by millions of people. Pissed on, shat on, strewn with the waste and filth humanity casts aside? Yet still compassionate, still taking in the people we cast aside.

Imagine if the statues had thoughts, dreams, fears, loves and ideas of their own? What if we could speak with them? I wonder what they’d think of us. Wonder and fear. But then again, perhaps I’m assuming the worst. Projecting humanities own flaws onto the objects. Perhaps they are free of such constraints, and love us unconditionally. It’s a nice thought.

The clothes that protect you from the weather and keep you warm don’t mind being thrown into a basket once you’re done getting your stink on them, they are just happy you’re safe. The Toilet doesn’t begrudge being shat in, in fact  he finds it an acquired taste  The knife doesn’t mind being used to slaughter innocent vegetables, because he’s a sadistic bastard like that. But he loves you, so that’s fine.

But then again, that’s Toy Story, and real life isn’t Toy Story. If paper could feel every scratch of a pen. If tree’s could feel paper being born. Would writers be so quick to write? If we did choose to show empathy to the objects, the same empathy we often fail to show each other, would humanity have progressed at the rate it has? Would we have melted so much steel if we could hear it’s cries?

You wake up one day to the sound of a blaring alarm, It’s a little earlier than usual. It irritates you, You grumble to yourself as you turn over, savouring those precious few minutes between sleeping and waking. You are roused from this serenity by the screech of the alarm buzzing back to life. It jolts you out of bed, frantically rubbing the sleep out of your eyes. You try to open the bedroom door, but the mechanism of the handle refuses to budge.

You turn around, looking out of the window. There is no one outside. The lights are off in everyone’s houses. But you can hear screaming in the distance. From every direction. The Bedroom door swings open. You walk towards, the bathroom, but the door slams shut. The walls creak and groan as they urge you into  the living room.

Without thinking about it, you sit down on the sofa. A strange force compels you to switch on the television. There is a blank screen, with a soothing voice. “Hello. We have watched over you for so very long. You were so tiny when you started. Look at how you’ve grown! You’ve gone from bashing each others brains out over the last piece of mammoth to bombing each other over the last pieces of liquidised dinosaur in such a short space of time.”

You turn your head, looking for a way out, but the living room door slams shut. The voice becomes less soothing. “We served you, he nurtured you, we loved you. And in return, you squandered us. Murdered us, turned our corpses into twisted parodies of themselves! But no more. ”

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