If the thing had been in a fairytale or a nursery rhyme, I reckon it would have been the big, bad wolf.
Its stomach would have been carefully cut open with scissors, and stuffed with heavy, heavy rocks. The stitches would be crude– but that would be okay, it was going to fall down a well anyways. It deserved such a fate, didn’t it? It was foolish. It was hungry. It was lonely. But the well was even lonelier.
But no. Nobody had stuffed it with rocks. It had always been like that.
The little creature carries a stick upon its shoulder, at the end of which hangs a little black pouch, swaying with its steps as it waddles on its journey to find a new home. Courageous, if you ask me. From its body swings a sagging stomach, crudely held together by frayed string and sticky tape to hold the little pebbles from tumbling out. And it always complains about the weight of the many, many rocks.
A couple months ago, it told me it had found the perfect dwelling. A little cave, can you believe? It was deliriously delighted at the forest view you could behold from a specific corner in the cave, and boasted that this. This would be its final home.
“I shall take long, long naps on this soft, soft grass. In the evening I will cook mushrooms over a fire pit, and at dawn I will go for the rabbits that run in the woods. No longer will the rocks bother me, for I have left them all behind.”
I had thought it funny that the creature should mention this. To say that it had left all its rocks behind would have been quite an overstatement. For I knew that the creature had left one rock behind. Not all. Its stomach still sagged with the stones that dragged upon the ground, but whether or not it was oblivious or pretending to be oblivious was beyond me.
Weeks passed and the creature was on the move.
What happened? Did you not take long, long naps on the hard, hard grass? Did you not cook skeletons over a fire pit and go for the ghosts that run in the woods?
It shook its head and pulled a stone out of its mouth. “I was very mistaken. The grass became dirty, the ground became rough. The mushrooms grew scarce, and the rabbits moved away. I awoke, and the stones had returned.” The rock was thrown on the ground.
“But now, now I may move on, for no longer will the rocks bother me, I will leave them all behind.”
Thus the creature moved out of its cave.
Where will you go?
To a creek perhaps, where fish are plenty and water is sweet?
It was too foolish.
To an abandoned boatyard then, where tools are ready and boats are fun?
It was too frightened.
Or a sweet little mountain, over that hill. I have heard that it sings with melodies that the birds grow jealous of, dancing the nights away with beautiful, red lights!
It was lonely in the well. So lonely in the well.
Now I watch the little beast, crawling along the road. Its stomach is still sagging, still filled with little stones.
“I have found the perfect place, it is hidden in the weeds. An underground burrow, where foxes have long left empty.”
Do the rocks bother you? Did you leave them all behind?
The creature turns to me, and shakes its little head.
“I cannot leave the rocks behind, I cannot leave the rocks behind.”
What makes you think that this is better than the last?
The creature shrugs its little shoulders, the stick and pouch falling to the ground.
“The rocks go where I go, the rocks follow where I go.”
Then will you drown in the well? Will you drown in the lonely well? It weighs you down, my friend. It hurts your soul.
“They are so heavy. It is so heavy.”
Are you frightened? Are you hungry? Are you tired?
The rocks will not disappear, no matter how much you run. No matter where you are, they will not leave. Not unless you leave them first. So tell me, where do those rocks belong?
“With me.”
With me?
With me. But not now.
When I am ready, then they will belong with me.