[the tortoise and the monkey]
Everyone, in a sense, is that tortoise in the desert: heavy, hot and hungry and barely moving in this desolate wasteland we call life. Everyone moves on regardless, dragging their weight. And like the tortoise, everyone has that monkey on their back. Everyone's monkey has that fishing pole, and everyone's monkey dangles that fishing line in front of them, with that apple on the end.
That apple is the object of our desire; the fruit of our labors. It's that thing we hope and strive for; the thing we wish for and anticipate. It's the thing we hope to accomplish and always have in sight. It's what keeps us going.
Sometimes, the apple on the fishing line swings closer; other times, it swings away. No matter how hard we try, or how long or fast we manage to travel, however, we can never reach out to partake of it. It's only the hope of doing so that keeps us going.
So our hunger for the apple keeps us going head-strong until we inevitably starve and die; left thirsty, hungry and smoldering in the desert
sun. We keep going until we cannot go anymore and reality begins to fade away into the darkness, and the last thing we hear is the maniacal cackling of that monkey, and the juicy sound of crunching as sits on our back, eating that apple over the squawking sounds of the ravens circling above.
[ 24 January 2003: Message edited by: rewiiired ]
Everyone, in a sense, is that tortoise in the desert: heavy, hot and hungry and barely moving in this desolate wasteland we call life. Everyone moves on regardless, dragging their weight. And like the tortoise, everyone has that monkey on their back. Everyone's monkey has that fishing pole, and everyone's monkey dangles that fishing line in front of them, with that apple on the end.
That apple is the object of our desire; the fruit of our labors. It's that thing we hope and strive for; the thing we wish for and anticipate. It's the thing we hope to accomplish and always have in sight. It's what keeps us going.
Sometimes, the apple on the fishing line swings closer; other times, it swings away. No matter how hard we try, or how long or fast we manage to travel, however, we can never reach out to partake of it. It's only the hope of doing so that keeps us going.
So our hunger for the apple keeps us going head-strong until we inevitably starve and die; left thirsty, hungry and smoldering in the desert
sun. We keep going until we cannot go anymore and reality begins to fade away into the darkness, and the last thing we hear is the maniacal cackling of that monkey, and the juicy sound of crunching as sits on our back, eating that apple over the squawking sounds of the ravens circling above.
[ 24 January 2003: Message edited by: rewiiired ]
