It was never always like this. I remember clearly the times being on the end of his finger. Inching up and pushing out from the cuticle was a big day in my life. At times I was so mezmorized by the fact that becoming dead keratin was so rewarding. I saw the world. As I traveled over the course of time up towards the finger's end, I felt a sense of unity with the rest of the nail . . . because I was me and I didn't know how much of the nail was me. I wasn't exactly a fragment at the time, and neither was anyone else; which also led me to think about how many more of me there were. At the time however I didn't care. I was just an observer.
As I approached the finger's end, I became target of every thought, emotion, either sane or angstful which required motion. I scratched, tapped, picked, and traced every part of his anatomy and surroundings . . . not to mention those of some very close associates of his. I knew that it was strange. I knew that it was foreign, I knew that it was dirty. However, I didn't care because we are all strange, foreign, and dirty at least once in a while no matter who we say we are. And I knew I was dirty. But I bore, tore, ripped, peeled, scraped, pointed, prodded, and taunted it all. Yes, I loved a boastful life of sin and horrors.
Sin and horrors. But no more. Now I just sit here, and I grow brown in the sunlight of the window. I bask in the ashtray with the butts, beercaps, and watever other little parasites that make our little tomb. As butts, beercaps, clippings, and whateve else, we lived to delight and to satisfy until we either became too long, too short, too empty, or simply too worn out to be anything more than a burden. We're all expendable. We're used, bruised, then emptied away.
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