WHAT A TROOPER

I hurt my finger.

My index finger, on my right hand, actually. He’s the real deal, that guy. Never lets me down, I tell ya, and rarely does he get credit for all that he does.

But he had a rough week, I admit.

First, I cut myself washing dishes, which had to be sterilized, then bandaged. Injuries notwithstanding, he still had to go out there and do his job: clicking, clicking… and more clicking.

He held up well.

Until he didn’t.

I awoke to find he’d… simply had enough. He was done. Sore. Disgruntled.

Still, despite his protestations, he was subjected to a typical day of work.

It didn’t occur to me how, even when I’m not working, my hands are very rarely at rest. When evening arrived, I told myself I needed to find something to do which would keep me anchored in place and sedentary while an ice pack did it’s work.

I watched the first episode of Star Trek TNG.

My eyes glazed. I sat alone, wounded in the most pathetic and unmanly way possible, and temporarily sidelined. I laughed out loud at the thought, and my laughter echoed weirdly off the walls.

This seemed… familiar, to an extent, but in an indefinable way.

I stared, puzzled. My eyes glazed.

And then I knew.

I would never suggest creeping up on a sleeping memory, they don’t take kindly to being dredged up forcibly from where they slumber. Still, the underside of this one glittered and sparkled more than enough to compensate for the worms and other filth that slithered and slunk away from the light.

Pushing myself up, I looked into my reflection in the window, and then past that: to the distant stars twinkling in the night sky.

And smiled.

There are memories, and there are inspirations. I’ve found that the best of both often collide in strange and unpredictable ways given enough time and perspective.

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