Tomorrow I...

I am in a lonely place. Up here, in the farthest region of your mind. Away from the light, in this black foreign place. Away from the reach of your inviting hands. I have been away for a while now. You are starting to forget me. Out here, away. I know I only still exist close to you because of a deformed idea of nostalgia. I know I am replaced. I know I wasn’t perfect; from the first day there were some issues. I had hoped we had gotten over it. Instead I find myself pushed away. No one can pretend to be perfect, and no one can pretend to accept that. We all wish we were better. But not me. Because tomorrow…

I’ve spent a many lonely nights away from you. The mornings were the worse. I knew I had been replaced, I was still around, but I wasn’t there, with you, just as you were not there with me. These sorts of thing happen. At first it wasn’t perfect. But we managed to get along. In fact, after a while my quirks probably seemed endearing, something you would mention to friends with a vague smile on your lips. Your lips, so beautiful, so tender, so sweet. How I wish I could still make them shiver with excitement. But I don’t see them anymore. Only a quick vision of you is what I get. It’s what I hang on to. We once were together, now, we may be in the same apartment, but we are not to be together anymore. Because tomorrow I…

And don’t think I cannot see that other one in your eyes. How everything is perfect, just the way you want it. It used to be like that between us. How long before another one is thrown away because of some perceived imperfection? And don’t think I cannot see the joy in your eyes. That joy, these eyes, that light, it used to be mine. But now, it slips away. By what twisted, demented sense of nostalgia do you keep me around, so that I can know your presence, but no longer bring you satisfaction. And I sit here, waiting for the day you take me out of your life permanently. And that day will come, and I won’t be able to fight it. Because tomorrow I will…

By now you can guess the anger in my voice. I am angry because my shouts will remain unheard. By now you can guess the sadness in my voice. I am sad because while I cannot leave you, you have left me. By now you can guess the jealousy in my voice. I am jealous that you are no longer mine, even if I am still entirely yours. By now you can guess the gloom in my voice. Because tomorrow I will still… I will still…

You robbed me of my hopes; all you are now is despair. You robbed my of my ambitions; all I am now is failure. You robbed me of my dreams; this is a nightmare. You robbed me of myself; I am no one. You robbed me. Did I ever rob you? What did I take away from you that you would have to take away my purpose in some sense of revenge? Why do you keep me around? Answer me. Answer me now! Answer me please… I beg of you, give me an answer. So that tonight I can find peace. Because tomorrow, I will still be… I will still be… I still won’t be…

So this day ends, my voice has risen, my spirits fallen, my soul is shattered. I wish for you to realize that now I am lost. But you won’t find me. I wait for you, but you won’t find me. To find me, you have to look for me. But you don’t care anymore. I now fear that you never did. Was I just a thing to be discarded when things weren’t perfect anymore? Do you think you are perfect? If so, can you teach me? And if I was just a toy for you to enjoy, and then for you to throw away once nothing was the way you wanted, why didn’t I know that? Why didn’t you tell me? And if I was just a toy, a commodity, then why don’t you rid yourself of the other ones you have around in your life? Throw away all these thing that have something in common with me. That chipped plate, throw it away. That water damaged book, throw it away. Those torn pants, throw them away. Throw away your friends that are not just friendly enough, your teachers that no longer teach you, your parents that no longer educate you, your computers that cannot compute. Throw them all away if you are to throw me away. Because tomorrow, I will still be broken.

I said it, broken. Not working the way I should. Why can’t you throw my away like all these other broken possessions? You’ve replaced me, I know it. Throw me away. I cannot do that to myself, I cannot throw myself out, it has to be you. You have to realize that you wish to discard me not because I no longer work, but because I cannot even pretend to be perfect anymore. When something can be seen as perfect, even if it is known to not be, people tolerate it a lot more. But I cannot pretend this. You know it, I know it, the whole god damned world is disillusioned about it. I am broken. Tomorrow I will still be broken. And tomorrow you will still replace me, and yet won’t be able to be rid of me. That’s it really: Tomorrow I will still be trapped in here, and tomorrow, I will still be broken.

Broken, damaged, shattered, non-functional. You only see me as a defective thing, but I am more than my defects. And all these endearing quirks? I still have them. But tomorrow you will have breakfast and won’t shed a tear about me. But I should not get angry. Things cannot get angry. I am a thing. An object. An unfeeling metallic mass in your kitchen. I used to make your toasts in the morning, but my handle didn’t work. That other guy brought a replacement. And you stuffed my in that dreary little dark cabinet. You don’t think of me anymore, and I cannot think of you. Because I cannot think. I am a toaster. I have no voice. And you won’t hear me tomorrow, because tomorrow, I will still be broken. Just recycle me please? I would like to see what the reincarnation of things will feel like. Maybe, next time, I’ll be a car, because tomorrow might unbreak me.


[Note from the Author: When I moved in, my roommate told me about her toaster AM/FM radio thing that didn't work anymore. I brought my toaster in, and well, we pretty much put the other toaster in a kitchen cabinet. Tonight, of all the things that could have crossed my mind, the toaster was the one that stood out. We never think of the tragedy of things. These possessions only exist to fill a specific purpose, and while they work fine, we like them. Once they stop working, we are unforgiving. We won't get them fixed, we will throw them out, and replace them. We are truly horrible masters... or is being thrown out part of their purpose? Either way, I felt that this toaster's story had to be told, and I could not be silent about it. Also, I think this little paragraph at the end of a story will become part of the standard here. What is the point of a story, if you don't know where it came from? Don't worry, I won't give you all the answers, because authors do put personal things in their stories, and while in this case it was about a toaster, other stories might betray something deeper in me. Or not... I mean, can you really trust me?]