Bottled Water (written for a former English class)

Bottled water sits motionless within the confinement of its cylindrical or often rectangular plastic bottle. It forcibly resembles a colorless solid, sitting comfortably on desks, in refrigerators, and on multi-colored counter tops. What covers most of our earth and runs through us in its untamed fluidity is captured in this manmade creation. We carry around this most vital piece of nature, as if we have some measureable amount of control over its distribution; eight, 16, 32 ounces. We treat it as if it weren't dripping freely off the rooftops on a warm January day, overflowing the rivers' banks in the first weeks of spring, or pouring over us in the lustful days of June. It is as free as the animalistic love we chose to domesticate; confined within the most popular labels in society: girlfriend, fiancé, wife. When committed, love is trapped within the same confined scope until, although able to move, sits perfectly still. It is two, once free spirited lovers, dancing around a familiarly drawn out comfort zone. Or parents, stuck inside a routine that has rendered them companions, stripped of passion and desire. We love, unconditionally, regardless of our situation. We love those who have betrayed us, we love multiples at a time, and we can even love those we haven’t met yet. We render that passion as such a rarity that we are driven to stamp our label on it, and claim it ours. Rather than let love run free, in its naturally rapturous manner, we selfishly carry it with us until it is as stale as the bottled water that litters our purses, backpacks, and car trunks.