Soup: A Comfort and a Crisis

Sick and somehow the pressure in my sinuses is causing my eyeballs to expand to a greater size than my eye sockets can accomodate and it is affecting my vision. In need of a natural remedy my mind automatically fell on the obvious solution. Soup. Hot steamy soup will deflate all swollen face parts and solve all of the other world's problems for that matter. Tomato in its finest form looking back up at me saying, don't worry, everything is going to be ok. If it had arms it would give me a big hug, which it still managed to steamily do. The first bite is somehow exceeded in comfort by the next and the next held still more healing ecstacy. I plodded dreamily through my little world of me and soup, my being at equilibrium. I was just about to deem the world good when I noticed something. With each spoonful of throat-coating tomato soup, I was diminishing the volume of the soup in the bowl. And a dastardly thing happens to hot soup when it is of a small volume, it gets cold really fast. So the shocking story of soup is that while the bowl is full the soup is hot but towards the end, you can't eat it fast enough to maintain the exponentially decreasing temperature. When there is just a spoonful left, even if it was boiling only seconds ago, it is tepid in an instant. If I could draw a graph with a curve to illustrate this piracy it would be gently sloping at the beginning but changing to a hyperbolically steep curve at the end with you and an empty bowl of room temp soup as the asymptote. Diabolical in its nature, this phenomonon along with everything else only serves to remind me that all things are in conflict. An activity meant to sedate dips you into its joys only to bring you back up and spit you out as if you had gone nowhere peaceful. This conclusion is in no way nihilistic, on the contrary, conflict is expected in a world that means something.