I was in the drugstore the other day and I heard my name being called.

It was a wire scrubbing brush with a wooden handle, poised hopefully on the end of a bin full of newfangled 'wipes'.

"99 cents - I think I'll take you up on that"

When I got it home I put it under the kitchen sink and went back to trying to get an updated Nessus installed.

A short time later it was calling me again. It wanted to scrub the entire house. We spent the next few hours together, until the whole house and nearly everything in it that was not immediatly scratchable had been scrubbed.

The wire brush was worn and dirty - with it's frazzled ends pointing every which way, drying there on the patio floor, it seemed somehow satisfied, spent - purged.

It informed me through its new textures, that it had lived a fulfilling, purposeful existence and now wished to be retired. I walked with it, my compatriat for at least 90 minutes of solid cleaning, to the trash...

...but I couldn't do it. I couldn't let it go - though its glory had passed, some morbid desire in me wants to keep it near, as if the spark of cleansing magic would reappear if it were ever again "really needed".

No I know that's not the case. I know that once that energy, once that kernel of purpose in a thing is spent, that's it - show's over folks, move along.

There's just one fire inside, isn't there? Can the flame of being, the essence of purpose and cause - can that be rekindled when it's gone out?

Yes, I guess I feel alot like this brush right now - I've done my bit, I did it well. Could I do it again? Well - I guess so, but why? I think so. I know so?

The brush waits on my desk near the ashtray as I ponder these mysteries.