Perhaps it is not what I said, but how I said it and whom I said it to. Some things are written to be shared with the world, shouted from the rooftop and strung along to a melody for the local radio station. Some things should remain in a journal, left between the author and God.
I'm retracting my last post. In fact, I already have. It left a bitter taste in my heart that I couldn't shake - a kind of guilt. I'm sorry. I'm still learning how to filter this outlet. Here is a (silly, metaphor-less) replacement post of a much clearer conscience and attitude. I hope it will make you smile.
Down the Drains
The bar of soap sat at the edge of the sink, longing to refresh his drying skin in the glorious flow of the tap. Often he would dream of the liquid's deep moisturization, but sadly it had been days since he had felt the strong, abrasive hands of the construction worker. And it was all thanks to her.
She was placed on a tall, red podium at the front door, framed in an equally attention-demanding red frame. Ever since she came, tap and towel had been almost completely replaced. Where had the standards gone in this place? Not down the drains, that's for sure. The only thing going down the drains recently was dust.
The sulky bar of soap was by no means isolated in his position. All over the city his kind were being replaced by the hassle-free, instant "sanitization" of her kind. It was a hard adjustment to accept the foaming varieties of soap into the family (and to be quite too honest, there were still recognized social distinctions between the solid, traditional bars and the up-and-coming pump-and-scrubbers found in so many industrial facilities). Now they were expected to embrace an alcohol based hand-washing alternative? Of all the impertinent, disrespectful poppycock...
No. It wouldn't do. Disinfected and clean are not the same and can no longer be seen as equals in the area of health. But how to change such a paradigm from the edge of a sink?
The bar of soap decided that he would finally make his stand. Slowly, he swiveled onto his tallest and most intimidating edge, balancing at the rim. He stood waiting there for nearly an hour before the next person, a young woman from the Accounting Department made her way into the washroom. Washroom, he thought to himself, not sanitization-room.
As the girl flushed the toilet, the bar of soap made his move. He vaulted from the rim of the sink and almost landed right in the palm of her hand... unfortunately, being so slippery by his very nature, he was unsteady at the jump and missed his projection by about three centimeters. The bar of soap ricocheted off the girl's arm, flew threw the air and landed in the toilet bowl with a splash that made the girl scream. She stared at the seat for a moment before hazarding a look into the depths of the basin.
There she saw a small bar of soap, floating and spinning in the whirlpool of her flush. There was nothing she could do.
It was indeed a hopeless fight against the toilet's strong currents. The bar of soap did not struggle for long - instead he spent the precious seconds of her attention that he had, screaming at the top of his lungs: "PURELL IS NO REPLACEMENT FOR IVORY!" Alas all that came from his efforts was a small bubble, completely unnoticed by the youth. As the girl walked out the door she reached to the frame and squished out a blob of lemony-fresh soap supplement.
This time, however, he was not filled with self-pity or anger, neither jealousy nor spite; he was going to a better place, a place where his work would never be finished. He would be valued, once more rival-free with a purpose and an action plan. He was hopeful... and rightly encouraged. That toilet's bowl had never sparkled so majestically is all it's days.
