Spin

The world was spinning. The calm, periodic revolutions of his surroundings left him in a state of bliss and joy.

His face oozed of serenity, of tranquillity, and his heart was buzzing with a happiness he had never before experienced, akin to that of a toddler having his first taste of that delicious confection known to man as ice cream.

He knew, with a level of certainty that he simply could not justify, that it was his surroundings that were in motion, and he was at rest. This led to a further deduction – that the universe was revolving around him.

And then he felt tired. Being a part of the universe is quite alright, but having the whole lot of it spinning about him just didn’t fly. He felt a burden on his shoulders, as if everything he did, everything he thought, everything he almost thought would somehow influence the things spinning about him, which was, of course, everything.

Everything he did would matter. Everything he did would affect everything. In a few instants, he went from a meaningless, insignificant blip in the universe to the single most important being in existence. It was another hitherto unexperienced feeling, a feeling of power. A feeling of being able to control everything, everywhere. A feeling that lifted the morose burden off his shoulders and replaced it with a stamp of authority and command. He was invincible.

And then he felt something. It trickled down, although he was not quite sure which way down was. He glanced at his tiny shoulders. There was neither burden nor authority upon them, but an intriguing white powder. Being of a contemplative mind, he got down to work and started contemplating.

The facts he had were limited, but sufficient. He was the one in control of everything, and all he willed would take place. That was a fact. He had not willed the mysterious powder. Another fact. It was only logical to conclude that this was an anomaly brought about by the realignment and reconfiguration of the universe to prepare itself to obey its master’s commands. Obviously.

Taking pride in his logical consistency and the ease with which he solved this seemingly challenging, but rather childish puzzle, he resumed revelling in his glory and superiority. 

That’s when the water came.

From all directions, at every possible angle, it poured on him, around him. Taking an almost cylindrical shape, it encircled him, and then lashed out at him. He willed the tide to stop, but it showed no mercy. Torrents of water slapped him, rattled him, wrenched him hither and thither.

He was a fixed entity no longer. The metaphorical castles of his glory he had built in the metaphorical sand were washed away by the swift, brutal force of the vengeful liquid. He had no more control over the rising level of water than a frightened squirrel would over a hungry squirrel-eating animal.

The water rose up to a daunting height, as if to consume him once and for all. And it began to descend upon him.

He was helpless, helpless as a bug stuck inside a washing machine.

He was.