I crack an egg into a pan. Its exhale is stifled. The splatter sizzles almighty, like spilling someone’s soul on the floor to gaze upon. I wonder what it’d be like, spilling into my own obsidian unknown. After all, how magical a fluid’s travels must be! Flowing through life in ancient moats and surrounding the castles of its purported Kings would be my ideal mission. The painful thing about such a journey is that liquids can’t appreciate breakfast, so it’s best not to get caught up in such thoughts.
The yolk is a sun. The pupil of a son. To avoid confronting my relationship with the egg, I scramble it. The act makes me yellow; I feel fresh and bright, but aloof. Whereas orange insists that you plunge into the warmth of a stare like it’s a rich carrot cake, yellow refuses the connection. It’s a zesty lemon, only appreciated in specific circumstances. My egg is yellow too.
I can’t help but cry as I plate it. I know the fate that awaits each wriggly piece. The egg doesn’t struggle because it knows that it’ll be fluid again. How that chance fills me with jealousy! The pressure makes my shell feel as if it’s about to shatter, but no such luck. I am a King, the controller, who can never be dethroned. My flesh prison is inescapable and forces me to birth solids for sustenance. I’m sorry for bringing the egg here.
Our time together is prolonged by my listless chewing. Sitting on the porch, I’m reminded of why I love breakfast. A view of paradise presents itself to me every morning. I avert the crystal sky and its gilded orb. I cannot stand the sight of the gushing river in the distance.
Instead, the grass is my perfect constant. It too is stuck, anchored by the ground. I sip my orange juice and admire the sprouting emeralds.
Breakfast will come again, but so will an empty plate: a sky that’s lost its star.
Dawson's Creations Literary Journal 