Posted on Posted in Fiction, Life Thoughts

At the bottom of the cup laid a slim layer of tea, still warm, still dark. Peering into its depths and past the rim, the liquid seemed calmed and being able of the utmost patience, having the ability to sit there and wait for as long as there was time in order to achieve that secretive final instinctive purpose that had been hiding behind the ink that made it possible. Right there, on its surface, a few clusters of bubbles stoically stood on top of its horizontal boarder and resisted, always knowing that there would be the day that their viscosity would give way to the air inside and by doing so they would let their prisoner escape, destroying them, turning them into nothing but more tea, returning to that of what they were made of, going back to its source.



Some of the bubbles were of bigger dimensions and were surrounded by the smaller ones, all comprised into one scared family of helpless scrawny beings, trying to live, smile and love through the elements; scared of death they held each other in terror and laid there, not knowing they had always been made out of the same tea that supported them, same tea they would turn into as soon as the foreign air they contained and made them special would escape and leave them, killing their identity of bubbles. They were always and had always been tea, there is no denying that.


In fear they would look up and see nothing but the white ceiling of the room. Not knowing time, they would believe the whiteness above had been there forever and soon believed, it was looking back at them, at all times. Whiteness had been there forever so, they discovered, had to be an entity that was superior to them and so they feared it and respected it; the ceiling indeed had been there for a longer time than the bubbles had been bubbles, but they had no way of understanding what a ceiling was and rarely one of them ever mentioned the word ‘room’, only to fall silent in shame.


There they were, there they hugged, resisting the elements. One of their bigger members once popped out of existence and the remaining bubbles regrouped as soon as the tension pulled them together again, as soon as the air from that now non-existing bubble was released into the air, leaving tea to be tea and air to be air again. When all of this happened the other bubbles could not but feel fear, they had not one explanation as of what had happened to that bubble and they all hoped it would come back soon; but as time passed and there was nothing but the whiteness above looking at them they knew, their time to pop would also come one day. They pleaded and begged to the big white above but as if they words had had no effect another of the smaller bubbles did pop too, never to return again. That’s when one of the middle sized bubbles broke the silence and said those two bubbles did not exist there anymore but were now high above, by the big white’s right side, for it was their destiny as bubbles to have a limit on the cup. The warm comforting feeling crept and calmed them all, the big whiteness above was there all the time, had been there all the time and even before time, and it was there to watch over them before they moved to his side; death was nothing but a way of becoming something else, a means to higher ground, to that realm in which no more fear or elements would stir their existences anymore, for they then would be reunited with their creator, for all of eternity.



The family, this cluster of bubbles was so busy looking up to the ceiling that they never realized there were more clusters of bubbles just like them, part of the same tea, on the same surface they laid and existed, inside the very same cup of tea. They were just too busy looking at the white ceiling to notice.


We are all but way too small.



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