bottled can

Once upon a time there was a canister of sodium cloret sitting lonely inside a damp and dusty closet...
The lil'can (just to spare a few typing distresses) lived his long 6 hour days craving for company...
The opaque environment didn't help either, Lil'can would often spare much of the dark hours fantasizing about the lucky spice recipients, stuck to the wall, always looking from above, oftenly given a much larger attention span.
ok nothing new here... the numerous average John Does don't usually surpass this tiny constraint in their earthly presence. But the can couldn't care less about those humanly habits..
Since its birth to its demise. It existed solely to be kept inside a sun ridden enclosure. And most of all, to keep other substances in such punishment.
The sodium cloret was lil'can's captive. And as sodium cloret, so other substances detention were now a part of Lil'can memory and existence.
It was definitively not an enjoyable "raison d'étre" !
Having to bear this daily carnage, Lil'can noticed that if enough humidity was let through into his gut, the powdered prisoner would react to moist and would assume a tighter and lumpier appearance. Lil'can assumed that it was a very understandable collective effect. When faced with genocide by drowning, boiling, grilling, and most cruel of all, frying. It was more than natural that a "let's go out with a Bang!" or "If one of us must go, then will go all at once" kind of attitude would blossom from that context.
The can kept using its time elaborating his highly complex conceptions of destiny and faith. One day the can started to express that enigma to a powdered garlic victim. Lil'can talked endlessly ... but the grinded garlic was still new in his captivity, therefore in the peak of denial stage. It was simply too much to bear: Beside waiting for certain death inside a tight can, he'd be punished unmercifully while at it . It was sheer psychological torture. For the garlic splinters that was Guantanamo-closet.
However, and as clear as it might seem, a cannister could never hear the powdered prisoners answer. The problem with powder is that each tiny little unit of the bunch, has a voice of its own.
You can imagine the racket of a million grains of dusted curry screaming at the same time.
So, as the moist started to settle in, the voice got clearer and when lil'can could almost understand an intelligible voicing, someone would open the can and, according to the social degree of perfection of the substance, a huge object would come from the sky and batter the lumps to powder status. It was an outrage at first, but then Lil'can started noticing that they would go back at it with added strength, especially in the rain season.
One day, after a long inactive period of time, one brownsugar lump assumed unprecedented structure. Lil'can knew that something above life itself would unravel before his very lid.
In retrospective, the can thought about the endless dark closet days that would just be swept away in a few more time units...
Finally the lump was complete: a serious coherent social stability was achieved. Perfection at hand.... indescribable.
Of a sudden, the lump started moaning as a whole. Lil'can felt he was viewing nirvana in real time... He could finally understand something, the moans and groans seemed to mention something about the human family .....
Something like: "I'll get them so much cholesterol in those fucking veins, you'll be looking like a open-air sewer in Siberia!!!"