Plastic

My existence has been idle on a shelf for as far as my memory will allow. I see like beings get swiped into the hands of the celestials constantly. I live my life in wonder of being chosen by them. I believed that today would be it. The day the celestials decided to pick me. It was a wish many like me had—

but it was a wish of ignorance.

I did everything — at least all I could do — to be picked that day. I saw a celestial coming straight for me once. I thought my dream would be fulfilled at that moment, only for them to pick something else at the last second. I was nothing, but then they came back for me. I’d say I grew excited with the first time I'd been held since I'd been placed — but that’s impossible. They threw me into this dark area that began to move before I could adjust.

Being in a dark area meant night, however for some reason I knew it was still day time. This was a false darkness of some sort, one I couldn't articulate as it destroyed my image of night and day. I couldn’t grasp this darkness, but soon I was forced out of it and thrown into another area — a pantry I think.

During the movement I counted four additional celestials, seemingly unphased by my presence. Of course they wouldn't be, as I am inferior to them. I should have been praising them for choosing me. I realized that I made a grave mistake not to praise them, so I decided to do so once I could get the chance. I was placed upon—

another shelf?

No, no no. This can't be it. I had been taken from a shelf, to simply be placed upon another? This made no sense. It must have been a mistake, or maybe a punishment for not giving praise to the celestials —yes, yes that must be it. I promised that the next time the celestials come for me, I'd give them the praise I failed to give them earlier. Just when I said that, it became daytime.

I looked up in astonishment. It was one of the celestials! This was my time to rewrite my wrongs and be forgiven. Then I realized something. I can't do anything. How would I praise the gods If all I can do is stare— can I even do that? What have I been doing my entire life if the only thing I can do is nothing? The celestial got closer and closer, its size of terror with each step. Were they mad? What could I really even do about that? To praise a being angered by uncontrollable matters. The celestial grabbed me before I could summon another thought, but they had no intention of moving me.

I was being torn apart by the seams. I did everything to struggle, but my everything is nothing. Struggling was not only useless, but impossible as I was split in two — still alive — whatever life is. My organs fell past the shelf. I have yet to know their final destination. I was thrown into a bin— at least that's what they called it. The things I mistook for celestials.