futilereality

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You're making toast. Simple enough, right? You put the bread in, push the lever, and wait. But as the familiar click echoes in the silent kitchen, a thought creeps in.

Is this really all there is? This cyclical ritual of browning flour, day in and day out? What's the purpose of this toast? Is it merely sustenance, a fleeting energy boost for a body that will eventually cease to be? Or is it a metaphor for something grander, something I'm completely missing? Perhaps the crispness, the golden-brown perfection, is a fleeting moment of beauty in a chaotic, uncaring universe. And then, just as quickly, it's consumed, leaving nothing but crumbs and the nagging feeling that you've just participated in an utterly pointless act.

…And then you realize you forgot the butter. Oh, the humanity!

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