Puppets

Self-conscious Nothingness we are, and self-conscious Nothingness we will remain until the end of time.

You can only find truth with logic if you have already found truth without it. A compelling argument, one that makes little sense but when has human ever make sense? Self-conscious Nothingness we are, and self-conscious Nothingness we will remain until the end of time.

The Puppet had a job now, at the ripe age that it should have a job, if not a little late. With a job, it mattered not if it was a good one or not - for if it was bad, the Puppet had readied a thousand excuses to convince itself otherwise - the Puppet had achieved its ultimate goal in life. Less time to think, more money to spend. It found itself in the heart of a big city, for your sake let’s pick between the bigger ones: New York, London, Tokyo. Let’s called it New Tokydon.

At the heart of Tokydon, the Puppet glided along happily to the different shops, where other Puppets with jobs spilled out as if from an ice machine at fast-food restaurants, the ones you can’t really control. The “goods” they bought were always good. If there was anything about a Puppet that wasn’t good, the stores sure can solve that problem. The “good” within couldn’t be shown, but the goods were handy because they were readily available, easily displayed, eagerly waiting to be asked hey-is-that-new? The answer was always yes, and the associated emotions were something called “happiness.” The Puppet sat on a swivel chair, smiling at the salesperson. It pretends to look at the new selections, one new selection every week or so. Should it buy one now? Or wait for the new selection? Or wait for the even newer selection? It almost had a thought, then the salesperson presented the Puppet with a small jar of lotion. Mister Puppet, sir, this looks amazing on you, the salesperson said, without opening the jar or showing the content. The Puppet wanted to see it first, but was there really a point? It knew nothing about lotion anyway. Would looking at the lotion, or smelling it, or applying it on its skin, or tasting it had made any different in the Puppet’s purchase decision? The salesperson was clearly the expert, and when they said it was perfect, who was the Puppet to say otherwise? The Puppet walked out of the store with a bag of goods, including the cream.

Work starts Monday, and it was a Saturday night, so the Puppet had plenty of time to wander around. It was meeting a friend later at a bookstore, “later” being a decent time frame for it to go home and figure out how to fully display all of the new goods. It walked slowly and lightly, looking at the other Puppets now, comparing its goods to theirs. I can buy those, the thought surfaced. I can buy those and look exactly like them, but of course better because mine would be new. The Puppet then forwent the idea of going home, because a bag of newly purchased goods was the best way to say they were newly purchased. It turned its gait toward the bookstore.

When suddenly Penny for your thought? Just a penny? A pair of hands shoved themselves before the Puppet’s eyes. It couldn’t quite understand what was being offered. Then, involuntarily, it said Sorry? What was there to be sorry for? The beggar, taken aback by the Puppet’s uncertainty of response, put out his hands again. No? The puppet said, staring at the beggar now, deeply, with not hostility but confusion. The beggar, couldn’t hold the Puppet’s gaze, decided reasonably to extend his hands to a couple of Puppets behind. The Puppet, however, chose to now gave him a coin, then swiftly walked away.

The beggar could only stand and stare. He was angry. He thought: why do I have to be subjected to this? There should be something more for me. The beggar, who was of course also a puppet, had acquired a collection of swears and curses throughout his career, and was then lining them up and targeted them at the Puppet. He, surprisingly, found that words, no matter how heinous, couldn’t satisfy the feelings he had then and there for the Puppet. All he could think of was the Puppet’s stare. It filled him with dread, tangled him with fury, twisted him with hatred, and left him still, sitting on that pavement, his fists curled.

The Puppet, who’d walked a distance away now, stole glimpses back at the beggar. It wondered why it did what it did. That was not a clever way to go about things, the Puppet thought. Maybe he should at least introduce himself. The beggar was sitting now, his hands no longer outstretch, but curled into fists. He was hitting himself in the part of the leg just above the knee. The Puppet thought he was performing some kind of dance; and while so tried to find something good about the beggar, one without any “goods” on him. The beggar was wearing what used to be a puffy jacket, used-to-be because it was no longer puffy, with the last of the feather hanging on or fluttering around him. He was wearing grey trousers, and no shoes. His hair was long and curly, covering his face. He was still doing the dance, and if the Puppet looked hard enough, it could see the beggar’s nose poking out of the dirty hair curtain. The Puppet’d now reached the bookstore, but it could hear the thump thump thump the beggar was making on his legs.

The bookstore was as depressing as the man. As the Puppet walked around, no matter how hard it stared at the shelves, there was nothing of worth. And unlike the department store, the bookstore smelled weird, and its customers didn’t seem too happy browsing through books after books. There was a disturbing lack of a salesperson. The Puppet thought to itself to get out of here as quickly as possible, why did it agree to meet here in the first place was a mystery in itself.

The darkness outside the bookstore revealed nothing but the beggar from before. Was he waiting for the Puppet? Did he follow it here? In a panic, the Puppet took the jar of cream out of the bag and started applying it to its face. It exhaled, and inhaled. Closed its eyes, then opened them again. The beggar was still there. The Puppet dropped its bag. From within the bag, newly purchased goods spilled out, each carefully wrapped or folded. The jar of cream burst when it hit the ground, shattered into many pieces, its content splattered, making the road slippery. The Puppet didn’t scream, didn’t shout, but rather collapsed as if its strings were cut. The other puppets gave the scene a good look, some even stopped walking. Others, still, remained composed, as if the sight of the beggar hitting, assaulting, pummeling the Puppet was nothing quite out of the ordinary. Such was the lives of puppets in New Tokydon.