-Song title quote: "Bond on Bond"-
I don't fully remember any interesting dreams this past week, unless by interesting I mean interesting by psychological association. In that case, the most interesting dream would be one which was a recurring nightmare when I was young -- arguing with my father. Now, I love my dad dearly, but we had some major communication issues when I was a pubescent teen, and we didn't always precisely get along. Anyway, the dream is significant because I had, the night before, created some havoc due to my still-weak skills with communicating my ideas in the verbal medium, and I suppose my mind made the connection.
On that note, I think it's time for another story! Because sometimes the best way to communicate something that offends people if you say it is to turn it into an allegory, so they only realize what you're talking about once they have read the whole story and, perhaps, see why you think what you think. And to forestall any questions on the matter, the main character in the following story is not me. But he could be an exaggerated version.
The Collector
A Fable
What, indeed, is life like? And what hand of words can take a fistful of it?
I will tell you what life is like. It is like a boy in a remote country. In the remote country is a village, and the village hides under a mountain that spits and scatters stones.
The boy, we shall call Gatherer. The stones, we shall call... stones.
From nearly his first wail of life, Gatherer collected stones. Some stones reached into the light and spewed it out, radiant. Some were somber and speckled, but they warmed sweetly after moist hands took them. Still others were pale, and shone only softly, like skin. All, Gatherer felt, were beautiful, and he added each to a box with cubbies in it.
At first, Gatherer's friends helped him, picking and taking stones for their collections or his. Some had a better eye for them than Gatherer, some could hardly see one or two on an open field. But games and chores and whispers with friends pressed urgently on their young minds, and collecting stones became a distant hobby. Gatherer, however, still loved the stones, and his box filled.
The time came when his box had no more room for stones. With a heavy heart, he sorted through the square nests to find stones he could sell, and through tearful selection, he scraped together enough to buy a new box. The stones clattered away, and the big hands at the counter produced a box. Though the sacrifice was great, the reward was still better, and Gatherer hied off to collect more and still more stones.
Through one way or another, Gatherer's friends soon found that they, too, could purchase trinkets with stones. Suddenly, they were back at Gatherer's side, and he showed them where to find the best stones, for he knew. There was much scurry in the village in those days.
But time passed. The children -- save one -- grew weary of searching and overturning for the best stones, the new stones. Instead, they sought favorite places where one pretty stone rolled in abundance. They took these in armfuls, filling their boxes with flaring gems. Then, off they would go to the store, and stones would clinker away in great avalanches. True, every child -- save one -- found and took the same pretty stones, so the large hands at the counter asked for more and more in return for small items. However, losing stones was no great tragedy to most of them, except in that it took longer to save enough for their next fancy.
Gatherer rarely had to give up many stones for each new box. He did not stay in one place to gather many pieces of one stone, for he saw that doing so took spaces that could be filled with one piece of many stones. All stones were beautiful, but he saw that it was much better to discard those of which he had many, to make room for those of which he had few.
Sometimes his friends would bring him a stone. Usually, it would be a pretty stone that every child collected, but Gatherer rejected it. He already had one, he said, and he did not want to take another space of his box away. But he would show them new places to find stones, stones that were valuable, and they would save up enough to get their trinkets faster.
His friends accepted this, for a while. After all, Gatherer did all the hard work of finding new stones, so the others had to find and take less. That was pleasing to them. And yet, they could not shake the irksomeness of finding so many stones for him that he would not take, and slowly, they became angry. They did not see how he could call himself a collector when he threw away so many, many stones, stones they had ached and labored over.
Gatherer kept saving and buying, always new boxes, never trinkets. Stones were more than beautiful to him, they were his life and breath, even as his friends faded and left. He tried to show them that stones had more in them than their price, tried to show them the most winsome of his stones, those that flashed and gleamed, but the most he got back was a new name.
The name was Brag.
His friends were bitter, now. They saw that he could buy things -- even pricey things like velvet-lined boxes -- with barely any trouble at all, one stone or perhaps two, while they labored over dozens, turning and picking, their backs bent. Sometimes, if the trinket was more desirable or their stones more worthless, they had to take two trips or three, store and stones, filling their boxes, then emptying them, then filling them again. It was much work.
Gatherer bought more boxes and collected more stones. They were beautiful to him, and he had all the time he needed. He did not care for games, the chores were simple, and he had no friends left to whisper to.
At last, he perceived that the village had no more stones that he did not. He did not know what to do, then, so he began to collect two or three of each stone. But never seeing new ones pained him, for stones were beautiful. However, he found he could not speak of this to the other children, for they hated him and his valuable stones and his constant talk about his collection, nestled in its velvet boxes. They thought him a miser, his collection a twisted monument to arrogance, no more.
So Gatherer collected stones, and he learned, slowly, to throw away his joy. Finally, the time came when he bought himself a useless bauble, and he felt no remorse as the stones rolled away with a muted clicking. It was better this way, for taking joy in the stones would only bring pain and disappointment.
And so he adjusted to life without joy. After all, the others had lived without it for years.
That is the way of it.
Reality check. In case you're wondering, this particular story is crossposted on another website, though with not nearly so much background information; I want the people there to figure it out for themselves, or not at all.
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