Confronted with the vast, endless choices of winding roads, the boy became exhausted. He realized that none were straight and none lead upwards to the blue sky and the stars beyond. Faced with choices with no difference, he resolved to let others choose for him how he should suffer. As he walked aimlessly straight, he found a group of people with yellowed nails and buck teeth. They were stupid and dysfunctional like him. But he thought that if he adopted their lifestyle he wouldn’t be responsible for his own sorrow. They all had narrow little rat holes that they bore in the expansive Field of Knowledge. They showed him the way down the claustrophobic pits and taught him to grate his mind against their rusty, sickening subjects. A small assortment of broken vases in their gloomy brown caverns were the treasures these neurotic little people offered the boy. The group formed a disfigured circle, some under sheets, others lying in the pots of stench, and they would kick around the vases. The head rat-person hissed tiredly as they kicked the vases. He had clearly scratched the walls with the instruction: You are to trace your fingers across the cobwebs in the vases as you pass them along. Most instead bickered and copulated out of boredom. But the boy endured, repeating meaningless words, desecrating the preciousness of time in the way he had been asked. And yet as chunks of his scalp fell to the ground, the little light at the core of his being knew that he was undergoing a slow ritual of eye removal.
Then he said, “No! My life has meaning. My time is precious. I decide! I reject you! I will sever your hands if you keep digging into my eyeballs!” So he grew aggressive and loving of himself. He built a ladder with their crap and shoved past a few fat instructors that tried getting in his way. Alas, he climbed out into the surface world of land and heaven. However, he had already lost much of his eyesight, only a sparse haze lacking color remained. His childhood was nearly over and he had not been prepared to understand himself or the great sky, and all previous skill sets had been subsumed by a defective tick that made him regurgitate the newfound treats on the surface above the tunnels. With no capacities, but with a hunger to eat, to understand, to soar ever higher, he took the first meal he could chew and swallow independently. This meal was labeled Greed and he gulped it down with Egotism.
Shortly after consumption, he began to float. Just like he wanted, he would now see what was beyond. As he rose bodily into the clouds, his pupils dilated in phases of euphoria. “I soar, never to return to the land where fools roam.” A great light beckoned from beyond the clouds. And he shoveled desperately through clouds with maniacal strokes to dissipate this gaseous gunk. His arms burned more than if he had dipped them into the sun. And then gravity called his name. Like terrible lead, his feet intended other than his outreaching arms. Then his legs betrayed; his torso too. He fell to a fluffy cloud perilously close to ground.
The rich cores of light within these skies had been closer than he’d ever be to them again. And yet he had come to believe of himself a hero. “How can I be a hero without a quest?” he wondered. He became convinced that he could not be a hero after all, and this depressed him. It depressed him so, that he let go of the cloud he was holding onto and wished himself dead. Plunging, he closed his eyes and forgot his being in the black void of samadhi. This concentration spurred wings. These wings carried the boy, his drooping head blinking on and off from depression to concentration. He grew older and older with this same pattern climbing and falling through the low atmosphere. The wings were stupid like the ground dwelling rodent people. In the moments of depression, he was aware of being a self dragged to places he never wanted to see. In the moments of concentration, there was no self and no complaining. If he could stay in this renounced state, there would be no problem because there would be no story. But the story-teller wouldn’t shut up, for this story-teller had a roaring voice and wallowed in the prospect of being heard across time and space.
So the boy resolved to confront the broad-lunged storyteller that kept shouting at the wind. The wings swerved in crooked angles until they flapped into the titan’s palm. “Why do you tell such a horrible story of me?” the boy asked angrily. “A storyteller like myself can never tell the complete truth but I must adhere to certain facts. I cannot tell a story if I cannot distinguish between a lion and a gazelle.” At this, the boy-turned-man raised his arm across his own eyes and fell back in distraught, knowing that he was the loser in fate. He cried, and between bounces of snot screamed “A gazelle should know better than to bear her kind into this world.” “Indeed, these are not the words of the triumphant. You fulfill your role with ease,” said the giant storyteller.
Having seen how the threads of folly had so intricately and marvelously crafted his tragedy, he wondered why so much effort went into making him a perfectly laughable fawn. This curiosity made him think to ask the storyteller about it. He surely had a story to tell about the source of all being. “I can tell you a story about her, but it is the most dissatisfying story you’ll ever hear.” “I doubt it can be worst than mine. How can you say it’s more dissatisfying than mine?” “Well, at least the story I tell about you is based on what I can see. All the stories I tell about her are made up.” “Tell me, is it the nature of lion or gazelle to value truth?” Then he ran across his palm and sprinted through the slanted middle finger and leaped into the wind. As he flew with speed, a rush of thoughts surged, perfect and pure. “If I discern the right path to carve, then I can know the truth. There is really a choice that can lead me to understanding.” Having learned to not partake of his first impulse, he decided that he must sit still to consider his options to the best of his ability. This required that he land and remove his frantic wings. Having teared them off, he sat under a tree and thought about what choice might be best. He realized that he… Died from bleeding out. The End.