A personal exploration of true human identity, what is human, and why we are human in metaphor form of an otherwise inanimate object.
Pretzels Human kind
Oven The world and life on earth
Fair skinned dough Youth
Oven door Life after death
Timer End of life
Heat Passing of time
Group of Pretzels Family
Hard Crust Breaking an emotional shell
Batch of Pretzels Generations
I can't take it anymore!! This heat is more than I can bear.... how can I escape from this oven of life that sentences me to an inescapable doom beyond these iron walls? I can almost hear their smacking, hungry lips waiting to suck the savor from my soul. Not even my salt will be left, only the odor on their breath, Only my memory.
I don't remember my creation, when I was first conceived. In fact, I don't know any other pretzels, who have made such a claim.
All I know is what I've been told. I'd like to think that I was lovingly formed at the hands of the baker who hand-placed every grain of salt upon my being. But the fact it, no one knows. What if the rumors were true? That we were all mass-produced, with some ultimate design from a baker far, far away, but who was utterly uninvolved in our personal creation? What if I truly was just randomly spewed out by a factory machine producing 400 others just like me per minute? Would I then still be special?
There are all kinds of pretzels around me. Surely, as they say, no two are exactly alike. Heh, I mean, no one is as beautiful as me, right? I can see my reflection now, watch my fair skin glisten in the...