Of cynical thoughts and jar imprisonment

Encased in a glass jar that seemed too stuffy for him, he felt more than relieved when a human removed the lid.

He was having trouble breathing from too much excitement and elation.

Which was quite funny, as he had no lungs for respiration. No, he only thought of the silly idea because he sensed it. Her. With a succulent, warm aroma that could be smelled by anyone who's not too far, it was very rare to come across a person without an avid liking of her.

He was a very tasty, short, white, fluffy thing that kids loved. He was a marshmallow. Too small, too soft, and also with a lifeline that could barely last for a couple of years. So, as a hapless little marshmallow, he had no other choice but to be confined in a glass jar, waiting for a human claw to finally haul him off and stop his waiting, because if there was something he hated more than being a marshmallow, it was waiting. Sometimes his fellows were picked off for a warm, campfire gathering; sometimes they were carried off for just a light snack; but most of the time, a human hand reached out only to grab some of them to pair them off with a hot chocolate.

That was the reason of his claimed "difficulty" in breathing.

Ever since the jar was uncapped, he knew that this time, he would be included in the lucky ones, the lucky ones who would finally be out of the stuffy container and finally be of use to someone. He was on the top of others, after all, so it was expected he would be the first to be chosen the next time someone gets a marshmallow.

As a marshmallow, he knew that there was no point of dreaming of something that could not be - that he could live more than just to serve as a quick snack - and had wallowed in depression and misanthropy. He utterly hated his life. Was that called a life, anyway? Existing as a marshmallow? When before he may know it, he may be propped into an unknown mouth, of an unknown face, and then chemically digested afterwards? And he hated every single thing about his existence, but whatever, he'd get eaten sooner or later, anyway, so why not sooner? Why prolong the agony? God, he was such a drama queen, with only complaints and desire to get out of this jar and finally, finally be with a hot chocolate conflicting in his thoughts. What was the point of existing as an irrelevant piece of food when your mind was always in cartwheels, streaming in a pool of melancholy?

But when the lid was lifted, his normally gloomy countenance was replaced with anticipation.

The humans who were living in the house he was situated in obviously loved hot chocolate drinks. He noticed while staring from his space in a dark corner of the kitchen that every night there would be someone who would always make a mug of hot chocolate with marshmallows before going to bed. He got accustomed into staring and unconsciously made it a habit of his.

Every night, while someone was preparing a mug of hot chocolate, he stares at the finished product with a feeling akin to longing, which was funny, because ordinary food like him could not possibly have feelings! But whatever. Because after countless nights of staring and thinking of how to get in communication with it - which was plain stupid, but hey, if he was capable of thinking, then there was a slight possibility that hot chocolates possess legit intelligence too, right? - he finally came into conclusion that he wanted to be with a brown, indulgent, fine liquid too, just like other marshmallows. And he was well aware that the moment he would be tipped off from a random hand and into the mug, he would die. He had always envisioned two ways of his death; one was by being thrown into a random mouth, chewed for a bit, and then swallowed, and the second one was by disintegrating into pieces and tiny scraps of fragments as reaction to the brimming heat of a hot chocolate. But mostly, he preferred the latter. Dying would be nothing compared to waiting. So he was not really bothered by the prospect of death, in fact, he spent all his life waiting of his turn to die with yearning. Because even though he knew that he would cease to exist, at least he would spend his dying moments with her. Where he belonged.

They complement each other, you know. Choco n' Mallows. Like Finn and Jake, Yin and Yang. Without the other, it would just be hallow and bland and somehow, incomplete.

Now that it is his time, finally, he was ecstatic.

His high hopes weren't crushed when the fingers of a hand that was just too large wiggled around inside the jar until he was picked up and held between a coarse thumb and forefinger, unlike his smooth, soft texture. Did humans always have awful hands? Ugly hand or not, he was not complaining. He was placed on a saucer, and felt the altitude go higher and then realized that he was being carried to a specific location. He could hear the purposeful steps of the human. So there was his moment, the time that took too long to arrive, but honestly, right now he was too preoccupied with sappy notions to care. All he could feel was euphoria. Because he was happy - happy that his waiting was over, happy that he got out of the container, and happy that he was finally with a hot chocolate. His hot chocolate. The saucer was set down on a coffee table, and his senses were clouded with the smell. To say that chocolates smelled good was a huge understatement, because in his opinion, it was the best aroma he could ever smell. A second later, he was in between two fingers again and was dropped off on to the mug. He was falling, falling, falling, until he finally felt the searing heat of his surroundings. He looked around, everywhere smelled perfect. Brown, eloquent pleasure was swirling his senses, and for the first time of his life, he felt contented.

Now, this was the part of the story where his ideal death took action, but he hardly cared. It was bound to happen, and he had no protest against it at all. In a daze, twirling around at the top of the hot chocolate, and disintegrating into pieces of fragments, he realized that maybe being a marshmallow wasn't so bad after all. And even though he still died and did not last long, it did not matter. Because it is not about his dying, it was about finally being together with his mate. It does not have to be perfect or to last forever, but the important thing was that it happened.

Every marshmallow will be with the hot chocolate he deserves, someday.

And the time spent waiting, however long or boring or miserable, would still be time well spent.