Memoirs of a Goldfish

from the last of them to my first memories, all have come and gone- forgotten and far less tangible than the everlasting- yet ever so indisposed- plastic cup i called home.

you thought i was not that kind of fish, and still think glass homes are better shattered. i should be seen for more than my gills and fins, or anything else helping me live.

you told me i deserve more than this one circular wall holding me back, keeping me limited; there are endless alternatives, a plethora of paradigms to grow old by, and ways to be that are far different.

and you were right! i couldn't know if i need these things i have never been without, but i couldn't help feeling they were there for a reason. but you knew better- i knew because you said so- because you told me you only peddle the most well-meant intentions.

it sounded reasonable that words speak louder than actions since actions don't talk, and i am just a fish, unscripted. but now that i mention it, my blank stares are often lost in translation and my peers don't even have ears.

but what do i know- i am just a fish, and now i am out of water.