Mockery. An insinuation of weakness. Insufficiency for even this crude masquerade. These perceptions of the rodents’ commentary arouse a contempt in Sod. Furiously, he wrestles away the wet soil, denouncing splinters of pain with sharp intakes of breath. Oaths go unsaid, but nevertheless pollute his mind. He can feel it in his arms, skull, and chest; the pounding of his heart imitating his discordant thoughts. Latching on to a safe and familiar scrap of knowledge, Sod snarls, “This is not real”, peripherally aware of how pathetic his outburst is. There is no immediately reply. Instead, an unfortunate breeze hangs on Sod’s sweat-beaded skin like a wool blanket laden with the reek of spoiling harvest goods.
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.
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.