Finally, “If so, you are not the master of your imagination,” emerges from the elder mouse as a meditative riposte.
“What’s that suppose to mean?” inquires Sod, incredulous of the reply as much as his predicament, exposing itself to his vision as a prison compound of sorts.
“Writhing in poverty and pain is not the intended state of man, nor a condition man willfully entertains. It is thrust upon him by one whose desire is the maturation of the soul. Given the option, you would delude yourself,” comes as an explanation.
Now on his side, Sod lurches forward, leering down at his company. The cloudiness of his eyes has since dispersed with the pain he felt on waking, and he can focus again on the details of his environs. The mouse, for example, is brown blotched with silver, but otherwise unremarkable. Certainly nothing worth opening his eyes for, so he closes them and takes a long breath, drawn to restore composure. Instead, it rekindles a fire in his ribs, erupting through his throat as a gasp of pain. Frustration and agony collide, and Sod condemns the rodent’s philosophy, shouting, “There is no guiding force in this universe, you fool. I torment myself because I deserve it!”
Unphased, the mouse calmly says, “Then I shall listen to your why.”
At first Sod is repulsed by the notion of confiding in vermin, but then the tide of his arrogance swells and, confident in his bitterness, his eloquence, and his wretchedness, he complies: A Cynic's Story.