Once a very long time ago there was a garden hose, but the garden hose hadn't been invented yet, so it was very lonely. This garden hose did its best to stay busy doing those things that it enjoyed: watering, laying around, and getting itself coiled around things that it ought not to get coiled around. But always its thoughts came back to that single thing: It was the only garden hose on the face of the earth. And so its existence was mundane.

The sky grew clouded one April evening and the tree our garden hose protagonist was coiling itself about was very rough. Its bark scraped against the surface of the garden hose, tearing minuscule holes in its substance. These holes were surely not enough to cause any real damage, but it was better to be safe than sorry later, so the garden hose uncoiled itself and began to water down the tree first. Suddenly as it watered the tree a gust of water sprung from its side, causing a sharp pang of terror to run through the water hose. What was this, a wound? Would it be fatal? Would he live to see the next day? As the clouds overhead broke and began to water the plants themselves, the garden hose turned itself off to see what it could do.

Thoughts of death ran through the garden hose's mind. Never before had it considered that it was not an immortal being, that, indeed, some day it would see its end. It began to wonder what happened after death, whether there would be some Afterlife or whether it would merely be an ending. Either way the garden hose could hardly care. An end would be divine, and an Afterlife would still be him and him alone. So whatever would come would come. Was there a higher power, some kind of God? If so, the garden hose hated it. This being had placed him upon the world, the only of his kind, without a peer, without another like himself, to live a dull life, alone. But as he considered, he had to appreciate that anything that could create the blessed water that he could spout must have been a wonderful being with some purpose in his mind, an all-powerful being that must have some grand plan, some scheme, in mind for everything he made. But the garden hose was not at all sure there was this God. He wondered, and perhaps even hoped, if maybe perhaps just possibly the end might take him to the stars, to live out the rest of eternity as one of those beautiful stars. To end like that would be almost worth the life he had led. But then again, to be a star would still be to be alone. Alone in a big and empty sky, with not even plants to water. Suddenly the garden hose decided that debating about it was futile. If and when he died, he would know.

Examining the wound on his side, the garden hose soon deduced that it had a very short time left to live, for water that he wasn't even calling was flowing from this hole. Without the proper equipment, this wound could not be fixed. And the garden hose knew no one with the proper limbs to use these tools anyway. And so, though the garden hose had never even contemplated the thought of an end before, it was approaching. And suddenly a new thought occurred to him, that he had been totally wrong.

HE WOULD NEVER KNOW!!! He would never know the meaning of this, never know about god or the stars or any of it, because this was it. When he died, that would be it. He would be dead. And then, nothing, and he would never know, because it was over. They say that no garden hose can contemplate infinity. Perhaps the truth is that no garden hose can contemplate an utter and complete end, for our garden hose began to cry softly, but his tears were very thin, for most of his water escaped through his wound. And this last little inhumanity caused his final tear and his final thought, a thought of God, and a thought that, Yes, there is a God, and even if there isn't, why worry? Serve God; I always have, and if he is out there, wonderful. If not, this life is over forever. Why not? And the garden hose stopped crying. It was good to think these things for himself. For a garden hose, he was incredibly bright. And as his last action he added to the April rain, watering the rough tree bark around him. To die doing the thing that had made him most happy was his greatest reward, and the only thing that made his life worthwhile.

We are all garden hoses. I know I am. I am the only one of my kind, the only one like me, the only one who understands. I spend most of my time alone, even around others, doing those things that I enjoy most: reading, writing, being amongst friends. And I feel that if I am the only one of me, maybe that's just because I haven't been invented. And things have changed, within myself. I am so much more. . . self-assured, but not really. Maybe it's a farce. I just like to think it. It would be so nice. And I'm good at fooling people now. Used to be when I was depressed, people knew, some of my friends could tell, my Mom certainly knew, others surely. But now? Now I hide it so well that sometimes I don't even know. I have a need. . . it burns inside me, and I don't know what it is. And I used to take out my frustration on the piano, and I'm not that great but I thought that if I kept playing for at least an hour a day like I did I was bound to get better. I just got so frustrated sometimes and all I could do was beat the hell out of those poor ivory things. And that is such a perversion of my values. Yes, I do believe my piano is old enough that the keys are real ivory. Goddess, I wouldn't condone that if I had my say. But I don't. I can't believe people hunt those things. Stupidity runs rampant on our gods-forsaken little planet. Infinity? Who needs to worry about that? First lets contemplate the finite. Sure, you know that if you have three oranges, you only have three oranges. But you don't really believe that if you don't try hard you can't get another orange. What if all of the sudden there were no more oranges? An end, forever? Can you imagine that? Forever, or, no, never? The end, no more oranges, no infinite, the purely finite, the measurable, detestable end. Do you understand? It's the same with our lives. People can't believe it will someday end, though they watch others die around them, and so they say, "We'll live on." And maybe we will, who am I to say? But that, like it or not, is the psychological and real reason behind religion, not the need to grasp the infinite, not at all, but the failure to grapple with the word END. And like I've said seventy-two and a half million times, nothing wrong with religion. I wish I had it. Maybe some day. But at any rate, I just thought I'd explain this story a little bit. I'm a garden hose. And maybe we all should be.