I am a sponge. I soak up everything my parents say about me. I can’t hold in all the unspoken words. They drip and splatter until some jarring episode wrings me out.
I am a sponge. I wipe up the mess created by others, trying to bring a sense of calm to my environment. I absorb the worrisome situations that others share with me. When my own life tries to get in, sometimes I’m too saturated to take in any more.
It’s not all gloom and doom being a sponge. I soak up happiness from the smallest trifle and take in wondrous moments at the least provocation. I find myself trying to share the happiness and wonder with non-sponges sometimes; it just annoys them.
I am a sponge with moods of different colors. I can squeeze myself into all sorts of shapes and sizes. I may scrape over sticky emotions like a Brillo pad or merely brush off the bigger crumbs from the surface.
I am a sponge. I get dirty and rinse myself clean. I get dry and empty at times until I absorb life. Sometimes, I encounter situations where I can’t absorb, like grains of sand stuck to my wet surface won’t absorb.
I am a sponge. I am not as flawless as I was when freshly unwrapped at birth. But each of my tatters and stains has its own story and impacts my inclination and capacity to absorb. Still, I am able to function as a sponge.
I absorb; therefore, I am. I am; therefore, I absorb. I am a sponge. No relation to Sponge Bob.
TATTOO—Journeys on My Mind
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