Confused as a Pie

Like on any other day, I ate a pie and I knew the pie was confused. Very confused. The dough was soft, but the creamy filling was so thick and dense, I knew the pie had been thinking very hard. First, the pie had to keep track of dates. It had to arrange the years and months, rearrange, and rearrange again. It knew that time, as a concept, was becoming no longer manageable. Then it had to think and think again about where it was going, but the choices that seemed available were: a) get eaten or b) rot. How it wished it could turn into a bird, or something. Devise a plan c. But the bird, too, could get eaten or be rotten, or both.

The pie sank into itself, like night falling on the ocean, and it stayed very quiet and still. Perhaps that was shortly after the journey to the oven.

When the sun hit the ocean and happy music began to fill the air, the pie was no longer there. It was there, but it was besides itself. It knew some digestive tract was going to find and eat it, but it hadn't been eaten yet, and so it was somehow hopeful that it would escape its fate. And in a way, it did. Right as I bit into the pie, the pie grew into a metallic flying saucer, a crazy U.F.O., zigzagging across the sky at amazing speeds. By disappearing into the clouds, it had handed on its confusion to me, the survivor. The confusion tasted very sweet in my mouth, and it has taken me months, years, to digest it. In a way, I will never digest it fully. It has left my digestive tract, to accumulate on the surface of my eyes, in my ears, on top of my head. And I am trying to share the fact that I have this confusion still left with me, handed to me by a simple pie, because I believe, or am actually certain, that there are other unassuming pie-eaters who, like I, spend restless nights, unable to sleep or fly, slowly enduring the sickening sweetness of confusion.