Like an egg

[VindicatedPurpose]

I just thought this up on a whim. Feedback is welcomed, enjoy.

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Like an egg.

I sit and wonder what I am. The grade A. Sanderson Farms. The white ones. Yes, those. Why do they call it grade A? As if they would ever call it Grade F, the cartons would never fly off the shelves.

There is a hand holding me, trying to crush me. Yet, despite all the pressure I am subjected to, I never meet the expectations. The expectation to crack that is. Even though I want to crack very badly, is it the hand that keeps me from cracking, or me?

I’d like to think it is the hand. I want to scream at the hand and cry out at the hand for not reducing me into a burst of yolk and white and shell fragments. The hand would want to wash itself afterward, and dump my remains into the trash. I feel as I would honestly enjoy living in the world of the trash bag than under the intense pain that the hand has given me. I would not need to give a single damn about hands anymore, or going from out of the frying pan and into the fire.

Sometimes I feel as though I am split between not wanting to crack, and wanting to crack. It is like being stuck in purgatory, or perhaps what purgatory would be like. I have never been to purgatory.

I hear they have unborn babies there, beyond that I do not know. All grey matter. Not like my insides which are yellow and clear.

Burst, break me already. Let my contents explode and pour out of your palm. I hate this limbo that you have placed me within.

Then there are other times when I feel lucky that I have not burst yet, and perhaps that is due to my will. I wonder if the hand will break me. Maybe fry me up. Once I am crispy and presentable, maybe I will be ready to be served to the world. Is this egg capable of that? I sometimes think that the other eggs are.

Or perhaps pour me into a batter, whisk me, spin me, and send me into flight until I have had a thrill ride, before I am molded into something tasteful and worthy.

Sometimes I wonder if I missed my chance at being poured into that batter. There are many of us, and many of us there are. We all look alike; some are destined for greatness while others are merely for breakfast.

Whatever it may be, I am at times thankful that this hand has not cracked me. Limbo? Maybe equilibrium. I know not its reasons; perhaps it is part of a greater plan. Or perhaps he knows I won’t crack.

Do I know this?

I’m just an egg.