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A Bowl Of Lukewarm Water

By Caleb Warner

There are times in life when the world seems to be perfect, a utopia of joy. Everyone gets along with one, and one’s pride and ego are high. Happiness, although seemingly flawless, is costly. This time of one’s life is like warm water, but one knows that if one soaks in the bath too long, one will become as a prune, shriveled and dry. This perfect ecstasy is surreal in its inner layers. One cannot survive for long in this state.

There are periods of life in which the world is as a cold black mist, encircling one’s every part, and veiling reality. One awakes with the sense that they are still covered in the shroud of sleep, and are still dreaming. This is the cold water of life, the mire that is ever dragging oneself down into its dark and heartless core. This chaos endures for quite a time, making its victim all the more hopeless and desperate to escape, but in vain.

Therefore, life settles out to become a bowl of lukewarm water. It is not really warm, and yet not really cold either. Every now and then a pinch of salt is added, to flavor the drink, but it dissolves rather quickly. One is left in a room, somewhere out of Time and Space, to stare at the basin. One cannot see the reason for existence, if there is no reason to continue on in a tepid world. But the quandary one is dealing with is that one is staring at the water. If one should happen to glance downwards, they would perceive that all that was required of them is that they wash their hands. For if this event were to take place, then they could feel the warm parts and the cold parts of the water at once. The water is only the solvent for the true dilemma: the grime covering their hands. If one washes one’s hands, then and only then will they truly be satisfied with their life, and all will be complete. But until they can stop staring at the bowl, they will never escape form their lukewarm life.