Contemplations of a Bowl of Neglected Porridge

Porridge

Porridge

Contemplations of a Bowl of Neglected Porridge

I am resigned to it – my fate, that is. Not only will I never be the enjoyment of

respectable people, but by the time they remember about

me I will likely be in such a state that even the dog will put up

it’s nose. Already for a week I have been slowly receding into the

darkness of obscurity; I wonder how much longer it will be. Will this

be my tomb? The thought makes me curdle. I remember the first thing

they put in front of me – a half-used can of Luigi’s Italian Tomato

Bolognese Sauce; arrogant prick. He didn’t last a day. But no one

paid any attention to me. They even had to move me down to level three

so there was room on the top floor for ‘other things’. I hate it

down here. There is a big, stupid bag of rocket salad between me and

the light, and the company at the back gives me an uncomfortable

foreboding of my own future. Mad, all of them. I wonder how long it

took. I know the jar of Dijon has been back here for the longest; at

least eight months, he says. I suppose you would lose count. Strangely

enough though, he seems to me to be the least insane. That yoghurt was

a goner after two. Now all he does is keep on cackling about how, any

day now, his benefactor will come and bust him out of this miserable

place. Poor guy, the only place he’s going is the plastic cemetery.

It’s depressing, but I need to keep my spirits high, or I’ll end

up the same. Or is it the hope that turns you mad? Plenty of others

have lost their minds and they all have something they’re stuck on.

Hope, that obstinate morsel; that evil little straggler, lagging

behind just to torment me. I asked the Dijon how he keeps it together

but all he said was that’s just how he’s constituted. I fear that

might not be the case with me. I can already feel myself losing it.

How long will it be? I’m cold. There’s something dripping through

the second floor onto my wrapping, collecting in a green pool directly

above me. Away with this cursed cover; like a see-through body bag. I

want to feel fresh air again; to see the sun, or even the light of a

bulb while I still see. Before he comes—Mould; that bringer of

blindness, with his creeping embrace. To think of it is dreadful

enough. Imagine watching, helpless, as you are gradually enveloped in

a sinister carpet of living filth that tingles as it feeds on your

exposed body. Imagine having an indefinite period of time to ruminate

on the painfully-slow process of your digestion by an amorphous alien

substance. It fills me with terror! I have to get out of here! No,

calm down. I’m better than this. Whatever happens, I will accept,

and control myself. Even if everything is not all right in the end;

that’s just the way it is. I am resigned to it.

By Matthew van Kan
Australia's Student Newspaper, trying to Improve Student Life. We publish articles written by students from across Australia and the world!

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