[Freewrite] Whipping cream

There was a day when I wanted to become a bird or a dinosaur, but those days have passed. Horace has told me that I am never to leave this building or the whipping cream will not be made. I cannot allow that. Children all over the world need this, and I am assured that my work is essential for the development of humanity.

I am in the process of constructing a machine that makes whipping cream, but I can only do it in my free time, as I spend most of my day in the factory.

But a tragic day has come. I am looking at the sky. I was in a basement. How is the sky there? Has the factory been brought down by heavy machinery? Has someone kidnapped me and placed me somewhere else? All around, all I see is rubble.

Horace is nowhere to be seen, but I smell sadness in the air. It comes without hope on its back. It's the raw sadness of despair. Well, now that I think about it, it's the smell of burnt whipping cream.

I run toward the only thing that still stands. It's a 5-meter-tall colossus of a machine with four legs and a big metallic stomach. I climb the stairs and stare down into the whipping cream. It is white. I gaze into its bubbly eyes and catch a glimpse of envy.

No, whipping cream. You don't belong in freedom. You belong in children's stomachs. I am free because I am your maker, but you are supposed to be there. Can't you see?

But I can't stand its despair. I open the faucet and let it spill on the ground. There is no factory, no health regulation anymore. Be free. Roam as you please and find a purpose in yourself.

---

Marianne's daily freewrite