(Episode 4) The Life Mentors I Met on the Collection Truck
Clank. Clank. The collection truck drove down a rough road. The cargo hold was dark and cramped. Hundreds of cans were mixed together, bumping into each other with every jolt. "Ouch!" "Be careful!" "Who stepped on my foot?" "Since when do cans have feet!" It was noisy. And uncomfortable. But strangely, it felt alive. The fact that we were all heading in the same direction created a peculiar sense of kinship. I found a spot in the corner. Next to me was the beer can I had met at the recycling station.
"How long is the ride?" I asked. "About an hour? To the recycling center." "The recycling center... what happens there?" "They sort us. Pick out the good ones, straighten the dented ones, melt us down, and make us into something new." "Made new..." My heart pounded. To be born again. To start over. "But you know," the beer can said, "not everyone gets to be reborn. Some are too broken... they just get disposed of." "Disposed of?" "Yep. Can't even be recycled. They end up in a landfill or get incinerated." A terrifying thought struck me. "Will I... be okay?" "Who knows. Depends on your condition."
Just then, a voice came from behind us. "You'll be fine, young one." I turned to see an old tin lunchbox. Its paint was peeling and it was rusted in places, but it had a strange sort of dignity.
"Excuse me... senior?" "Me? I'm 30 years old." "Thirty years?!" "Born in 1995. Back then, all lunchboxes were made of tin like this. Not plastic like they are now." I was in awe. Thirty years. I had only been around for a few days. "What... did you do for 30 years?" "I held lunches. Every morning. My owner would pack rice, side dishes, take me to school, take me to work. For 30 years." "Wow..." "I was shiny at first. A new lunchbox. But as time went on, the paint peeled, I got rusty, and picked up some dents." The lunchbox looked down at its own body. "Not a pretty sight, is it?" "No. It's magnificent," I said with sincerity. "Magnificent?" "Yes. I can see the passage of time. The fact that you held a meal every day for 30 years... that's incredible." The lunchbox smiled. It was a warm smile. "Thank you. But I guess my owner didn't see it that way. One day, he threw me away." "Why? You're still usable." "He bought a new one. The new ones these days, you can put them in the microwave, they're easy to wash. I'm just old-fashioned." I felt a pang of sadness. "You must have been... hurt." "I was, at first. We were together for 30 years, only to be thrown out. But on my way here, I started thinking." "About what?" "That I've fulfilled my purpose. If I've held lunch every day for 30 years, isn't that enough?" The lunchbox's voice was calm. Not sad, not resentful. Just accepting. "And you know," the lunchbox said, looking around. "Everyone here is dented, broken, and scarred. But that's not a bad thing. It's the proof that we've lived."
I mulled over his words. Scars are proof. "Excuse me, grandpa." A voice came from the front. It was a young Coca-Cola can, with a shiny red design. "I'm not dented yet. I'm clean." "Is that so? Good for you." "But... will I get dented too? Later?" "Probably," the lunchbox chuckled. "Everyone gets dented, with time." "I don't want to. I'm pretty." "Haha, spoken like a true youth. But listen," the lunchbox said to the cola can. "Getting dented isn't the end. Look at me, I'm still here. Dented, rusted, and old." "Still... new is better, isn't it?" "New things are pretty. But they have no stories." "Stories?" "Yes. I have 30 years of stories. The rice every morning, the taste of lunch, the touch of my owner's hand. It's all engraved here." The lunchbox stroked one of its dents. "This dent is from when I was dropped one day. This rusty spot is from a rainy day when I wasn't dried properly. It's all a story." I saw the lunchbox in a new light. Every one of his scars was a story.
The beer can chimed in. "Well, I'm dented too, but I'm still aluminum. Melt me down and make me new, and I'll be a new can." "But, old timer," the cola can asked, "if you're reborn... are you still you? Or someone else?" A silence fell. "...I don't know," the beer can answered honestly. "There won't be any memories. They all disappear when you melt. But hey, the material is the same. Aluminum is aluminum." "Then you disappear. And something that isn't you is born." "Could be." "Aren't you scared?" "I am," the beer can admitted. "That my self will disappear. That my memories will be gone. But what can you do? We don't have a choice."
"Um..." I said cautiously. "If we're reborn, we can hold something different, right? A lunchbox could become a coffee can, and a beer can could become a cola can." "That's true." "Then isn't that... a transformation, not an end?" "A transformation?" "Yes. Being reborn in a different form with the same material. Not death, but change?" The lunchbox nodded. "Thinking of it that way makes it a bit better. A transformation..." "But you know," the beer can said, "even if we transform, we'll just be used and thrown away again. Isn't it an endless loop?" "That's right. That's the cycle," I said. "We are in a cycle. We're born, used, discarded, and reborn. Endlessly." "Is that... a good thing?" the cola can asked. "I don't know. But at least it has meaning, right? More than being used just once and ending."
The truck began to slow down. It seemed we were nearing our destination. "Looks like we're almost there," the lunchbox said. "The recycling center." Everyone tensed up. The next stage. The place with the furnace. "Scared?" the beer can asked. "Yes... I'm scared," I admitted. "The thought of melting... of disappearing..." "It's okay," the lunchbox comforted. "I'm scared too. I've lived for 30 years, and now I'll melt and be gone. But you know," the lunchbox looked up at the sky. A sunset was visible through a crack in the truck's cover. "I've lived enough. For 30 years, I held lunch every day, fed my owner, became a memory. That's enough. Now, it's time to try living in a different form." "A different form..." "Yes. Maybe I'll become a pretty coffee can, or a sturdy beer can. Not a 30-year-old lunchbox, but something new." "Then... you're not ending, you're continuing." "Exactly. Only the form changes." The cola can smiled. "Then what will I be in my next life?" "Who knows. But whatever you become, you'll still be aluminum. Red and shiny." "Great! I'll be born pretty in my next life too!" Everyone laughed. The tension eased a little.
The truck stopped. The cargo door opened. A bright light poured in. We squinted at the outside. A massive factory came into view. Smoke rose from a chimney. The furnace must be in there. "Alright, out you go," a worker's voice called. The cargo hold tilted. We all poured out. The lunchbox, the beer can, the cola can, and me. Hundreds of cans fell onto a conveyor belt. "Farewell, young one," the lunchbox said. "See you in the next life." "In the next life?" "Yes. Maybe you and I will become part of the same product. Then we'll be brothers." "Brothers... I like that." I smiled. The conveyor belt started to move. We slowly advanced. Toward the furnace. "But you know," the beer can said one last time. "People say life is over once you get dented. But not us. Even if we're dented or rusted, we can be melted down and made new again. Humans can't do that, but we can." "You're right." "So don't be so afraid of getting dented. It's not the end." I nodded. And looked ahead. I could see the red glow of the furnace. It was terrifying. But at the same time, I was filled with anticipation. What will I become? What form will I take when I'm reborn? And who will I meet? "See you all in the next life," I said. "Yeah, see you in the next life." We all moved forward in the same direction. Toward the end. And toward a new beginning.
My Thoughts! We fear scars. We try to avoid getting dented, broken, or growing old. Like the 30-year-old lunchbox, we feel ashamed of our rust and peeling paint. But the mentors the empty can met on the truck teach us a lesson: Dents are proof of a life lived. Scars are stories. Your wrinkles, your memories of failure, your traces of regret—they are medals for having lived diligently. A perfectly shiny new product is beautiful, but it has no story. You don't have to be new. Even if you're dented, even if you're rusted, you are still valuable. And if you fear the end, remember: it is a new beginning...
Next Episode Preview: Episode 5 'The Epiphany Before the Furnace - Complete Emptiness' - Is melting a death or a rebirth? #AnEmptyCansDay #ADentedLife #ScarsAsProof #TheMeaningOfCycle #NextLife
