Still-Born Birth

This is My Birth-Right — Another planksip Möbius.

This is My Birth-Right

In the quaint, frostbitten village known colloquially as "Monkey's Eyebrow" for reasons lost to time and sanity, there lounged Sophia. As the self-appointed monarch of the steaming hot springs, her rule was uncontested mainly because none of the other macaques cared much for politics. They were too busy with the serious business of soaking and occasionally flinging snowballs with uncanny accuracy at unsuspecting tourists.

Sophia's latest subject, a wizened old macaque with a furrowed brow that hinted at a lifetime of contemplating bananas, was Alexander. He was perched with an air of someone about to recite Shakespeare, though the only audience he'd likely ever attract would be the snowflakes.

A word is dead when it is said, some say. I say it just begins to live that day.
— Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

Sophia rolled her eyes so hard they nearly splashed into the spring. "Oh, come on, Alex. If a word lives after being said, my 'get out of my hot tub' should have sent you packing ages ago."

Alexander simply winked, the corners of his eyes crinkling like a well-read map. "Sophia, my dear, you have to admit there's a certain charm to the idea. Words take on a life of their own; they can start a party or end a war. They're like little troops waiting for your command."

Sophia snorted, sending a small wave across the surface of the water. "The only thing my words are starting is a serious case of prune fingers."

The days continued in their usual blend of hot water and cold air, with Sophia's reign mostly involving strategic placement for maximum warmth and minimum splash from the young ones practicing their cannonballs.

One crisp morning, Alexander floated a new philosophical tidbit towards her, like a leaf on the surface of their steamy domain.

The fact that life has no meaning is a reason to live - moreover, the only one.
— Emil Cioran (1911-1995)

Sophia squinted at him. "That's bleak, even for you, Alex. No meaning? What about all the drama over who gets the best spot in the pool?"

"Ah," Alexander said with a sage nod, "but it's precisely that drama that's so delicious. If there's no grand plan, every squabble, every stolen glance, every splash is our own making. We're artists of the everyday, comedians of the cosmic joke."

Sophia contemplated this, her tail flicking water at a particularly pompous looking macaque who seemed to think he owned the adjacent rock. "So, life's a joke, and we're the punchline?"

"Exactly!" Alexander beamed. "And what's funnier than a bunch of monkeys in a hot tub?"

Sophia couldn't help but chuckle. The more she thought about it, the more she saw the humor in their existence. They were a band of furry jesters, turning the bleakness of life into an endless hot spring party.

She turned her newfound philosophy into a game. With a dramatic flourish, she'd declare the pool open to the snowballs, inviting chaos with the kind of pomp and circumstance usually reserved for royal decrees.

There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them.
— Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)

"Well, Sylvia Plath never met our hot springs," Sophia thought with a smirk, "the ultimate cure-all for existential dread and chilly toes."

This is My Birth-Right — Another planksip Möbius.

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