My Only Cup . . .

 That was my last cup. My only cup, actually. I've only ever had but the one. It's necessary that I repair it, lest I forever cease to partake in brewed beverages of bitter, warm, sweet, Heavenly indulgence. And that is as essential to life as air, for without such things, existence ceases to be life but rather devolves into a state of survival and nothing more. So now I'm left to pick up the pieces of my carelessness. Again.

It's tedious, delicate work, reassembling broken ceramic dishes. It can take quite a while, but it's worth it. Cups like this, you can't just buy from the store. A sentimental thing, it is to be carrying the weight of the generations it's passed through to end up in my hands. Every last fragment must be found and aligned like a puzzle. Brushed lightly with polyvinyl and held in place for adequate time; if not held long enough, it falls back apart with caked glue that has to be removed from its edges, and the process must start over. It requires patience, gentleness and strength, steadiness and force. The cracks may be unattractive, even repulsive at first, but in time they become as details of the piece's beauty, contributing to the overall appreciation of the cup as a whole, adding to the history another story, another fall, another healing, another failure . . . Another failure. Failure. Another failure . . . No, another triumph. Not just new existence, but new life. Frailties overcome.

Triumph Over Tragedy pt. 2

The sound of a pained and exhausted inhale rang in his ears and he closed his eyes. The male nurse in the room lowered his face and stepped back, disappearing behind the opposite cloth barrier.

“Eu . . . gene . . . ?” a weak voice muttered.

He toppled forward, his face pressing against the speckled linoleum tiles on the floor, gasping for air in insufficient quantities.

“Eu . . .” the voice trailed off, being replaced by the sound of the respirator; the pump exhaled into her again, “gene . . . ?”

He squirmed and writhed about on the floor, wailing; “We were supposed to have another year!” he shouted, twisting onto his back to stare at the ceiling, “A blasted year! Not two hours!”

The nurse knelt beside him and put a hand on his shoulder, somehow helping him regain his composure. Agonizingly, he rose to his feet and straightened his face.

“Eu—” the voice was cut off and sent into a fit of coughing and wheezing, “Eugene?”

The constitution of his face faltered momentarily, but was quickly reaffirmed. He took a long step forward and into her view. She never turned to focus on him.

“Terr?” he beckoned quietly.

Her face turned slightly in his direction and he saw her once-brown irises, now coated in a silver film, flutter back and forth, searching for him, “Gene?” she whispered back.

He turned to the trash bin and fell to his knees, emptying the contents of his stomach. He began slamming his forehead into the cabinet. The nurse urged him to stop, but didn't force him to until a trickle of blood began to stream down from his hairline.

He shoved her back and stood again, taking his wife's hand in his own, fingering her ring, and pulling it to his lips. He pressed a couple fingers to her temple and caressed the height of her face, down to her jaw.

Depth Of An Antonym

It is the sorrows and pains of life that bring the joys and comforts. If one were to sleep on a soft bed their entire life, they would not know the comfort of the rest for they would never have slept on gravel or cement. Occasionally, one must rest on rocks or concrete to keep the discomfort fresh in the mind, or else forget and not know the true pleasure of having a bed in which to sleep at night. Truth, also, is forgotten and overlooked if one is not accustomed to hearing lies. Faith, love, so far as life, what are they if absent of their acronyms? What is faith without disloyalty and doubt, love without hate or loss, life without death? They not only lose their power and meaning, but also their very existence. Faith, without doubt or disloyalty, would not be something that meant to believe or to have loyalty, but mere existence. It would be the accepted way of existing, and there would be no 'without', therefore there would also be no 'with'. Love would also not exist without hate or loss, as love would be universal and the lack thereof would not exist, so the way in which love is measured and known would be gone and there would be no such feeling to describe. Life, without death, would never be deemed life, therefore would not exist as it does. It would become, simply, 'existence'. The term 'life' would not be known, for the term 'death' would not, and the existence would be without striving for accomplishment due to a limited amount of time available in which to achieve said goals.