To Be Spent

It's not fair. I don't like it. I feel like such an etcetera. And no one really cares anyway. They just use me.

Such was the preoccupation of this modern-day "Jonah" but a few short minutes prior to this.

Why should I care? They don't. Do I look like some commodity or something?



Silence. Then I feel a gentle tug on my heart.


"Isn't this exactly what you prayed for?"


...

Then it hit me, like the force of bright noon-day light when you've just come out from pitch-black darkness.

Yes, this. This is my prayer being answered.

To be spent.