I am a goldfish.

I swim around in my little fish bowl and burp up teeny, tiny bubbles
that are labeled things like “onomatopoeia” and “hyperbole.”

Occasionally, people may hear what those bubbles say.
But I think they mostly just pop and turn into dead air.

And from the heavens, occasionally, a giant hand will appear
and drop what appears to be…pencil shavings.

I burp literary devices.
And eat pencil shavings.

And it’s hard being a goldfish.
Not because it’s hard to swim and burp and eat.
(In fact, those are the easy parts. Goldfish school covered those parts.)

It’s hard because everyone’s watching me.
And knocking on the glass.
Telling me to swim faster and jump higher and be better.

And sometimes, I just wish I could hide.
Behind one of those little plastic trees or treasure chests or whatever.

Because sometimes Mondays just feel like too much.
And sometimes they forget to feed me. (Or only feed me half of what I’m supposed to be fed because the pet store allegedly allocates only for so much food per fish.)
And sometimes they knock on the glass so hard a little water spills out and I just don’t feel like I have my balance anymore.

And sometimes I wonder if I was even meant to be a fish.

Because I just kind of ended up in that bowl.
It was rather by happenstance really.

But here’s the thing.
Mondays happen.
Even to goldfish.

And I could hide in my treasure chest and wait for the sun to go down, but then what?
What about all of the people waiting outside of my bowl?
Waiting for those little bubbles?

So for now.
I will keep swimming.
And burping.
And eating.

But to be honest, I think the ocean is calling my name.

 

 

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