A man, A mind, and nothing else

"SARTORIO"

The pile giveth; and then, the pile taketh away.

There is always the desire to rise to the top. He felt it, too - the need to rise above all else, be the chosen one. To be favoured and be so close to someone such that there is nothing separating them. That intimate feeling that overrules all other sensations. And one day, after so long, his chance came once more.

A great hand from the sky came unto him and picked him up and lifted him upto the gates of heaven. He felt himself being weighed and considered; and, after an interval where he held his breath, he was Chosen. He had been personally picked to protect and preserve. It was his turn to bathe in the glorious light. He hoped to never have to return to his damp and dark home - the glory had come to him and removed him from it, and saved him from an existence of ignonimy.

He spent an infinity of glorious occasions with his charge, being an inseparable companion at all times - being right with him at mealtimes, with him on his his, with him even in the gentleman's room; this sort of complete access made him feel incredibly special and favoured.

However, the glory trip began to lose steam. He felt an aura of disenchantment - felt that he could no longer feel as bright or happy as he had previously done. Could not serve quite as well. Tired, wrung, wrinkled, jaded, and worn.

Suddenly, the pain of separation - being discarded, as yesterday's good. The pain of rejection, the humiliation, the feeling of being used all crashed unto him. He was no longer his smart self: no longer as sharp or fresh. He felt dirty and shapeless.

He knew that there would be another chance, but for this he must lose himself and remove the baggage and the dirty habits from his time of decadence. He was removed, with some of his peers, and taken to where he might be Redeemed.

He felt the cold sharp sensation of being drowned in the waters of introspection, and the sharp abrasion and pain of the removal of his dirt, his sullied nature, from himself. He then faced the harsh sunlight - baked in it, heated until all his burdens were burnt away, revealed to himself and all; yet, this made his worries evaporate.

Soon, he found himself flat on his back - burned, pushed, and pressured. He was forced back into the right shape, the right form of mind - return to what he was, as opposed to what he'd become. It wasn't the same, though. He was a paler and thinner version of his old self. There was, however, hope. Always, there was hope, even as he returned to the pile in his dank neighbourhood, awaiting the moment of his delivery once more. Once again, he waited to be picked.

To rise to the top of the pile.

To him, there was only being used and worn. This was his purpose. And he gloried in it. And this glory came to him, as once more he was picked.

Vipul felt his sleepy mind playing tricks on him as he pulled on his t-shirt - he seemed to be hearing sounds of celebration and rapture. He shook his head and carried on.