Write a story from the perspective of an inanimate object, but never tell us explicitly what it is
It was the thumping that got to me. I never got over it. I should have been OK with that part. I mean, the skidding, the kicking, the slamming, the grinding, the dirt. The noise! All that was OK. But the thumping--I couldn’t take it anymore.
When I finally left, it was during the Fall, when no one was around. It was very odd to feel separated from my home and dangling freely through the air for the first time since I can remember. I could feel the breeze on my back--something I had never felt in all of my career. I thought I might miss my home--that I would feel naked and useless once I was gone. But quite the contrary. I’ve never felt more free.
All my life, I knew I was a mathematical impossibility. Now, none of that mattered. I was in Nirvana, where I existed free of form and constraint. I could be everywhere and nowhere at once. It was like something I had never experienced before. All of me was nowhere to be found. But now that I was essentially nothing, I felt more connected and part of something than when I was whole.
I had been extremely useful during my career. It isn’t that I had felt useless. I did like that part. And I worried about letting go of that. But now that I am gone, I don’t know whether my actual usefulness can be measured after my departure. And it is a good thing. Somehow, I feel as though I can accomplish anything. And there is no limit.
The best part: there is no more thumping.
