(no subject)
I had to write two parables for one of my english classes. Here is one of them.
Parable of the Forest
He walked. The snow under his boots made a crisp crunching noise with each step, the soft sound echoing quietly through the thick wood around him. He was deep in though, contemplating the usual: life, love, and the everlasting remembrance of youth. As he walked, the forest became darker, and the path became more and more narrow. Soon, he walked on the fine edge of a knife, a trapeze wire ready to disappear into the gloom or snap in an instant.
As He entered the dark abyss of the forest, snow-covered sentinels towering around him, he began to let his thoughts wander into a sort of paranoid frenzy. What if he never found his way out of the abysmal forest? What if he lost the path in the accursed light of forest-dusk? Of course, he dismissed these thoughts as irrational and decided to keep walking. The path didn’t seem to be turning anytime soon, and it seemed obvious that if he stepped off of it that the extra crunch of a fern or small leafless bush would herald his mistake.
Just as he was regaining confidence, forming a protective shell around his mind, a distant noise carried by the wind made him pause. Was it real, or the final illusion of a mind currently in a state of terror? It must not have been there. It was just more irrational thinking; a devil’s attempt to instill fear into a righteous man.
He resumed his walk with a semblance of confidence. Everything would be all right. The last rays of sun filtered through the barren canopy of the forest, giving the scene a surreal quality and he found himself at a crossroads. He examined the paths, and found them both to be covered in snow, with no evidence of the preceding travelers that had inevitably made use of these woods. On one hand there was a large winding path that seemed to be heading in his current, and on the other was a narrow path, straight as an arrow, heading westward into the setting sun.
As he sat at the divergence of paths, he could not help but think of the great Robert Frost who, having encountered a similar experience, took the road less traveled by. Again and again, until the woods grew dark and the wind howled like a pack of wolves, he thought about which path he should take, all the while muttering to himself, “and I-I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.” With a grimace not unlike that of a scarecrow, he set off down the narrow path.
It was soon after he had chosen his straight and narrow path that he realized how difficult it was to stay on it in the dark. He was fumbling into the unknown, into nothingness, and all he could do was trust his feet and hope that the path never strayed from its course. He was startled by the wind, its dreadful dirge sounding again, almost identical to the sound of a pack of wolves. “Irrational thinking along those lines,” he said to himself aloud, must not be allowed to happen, for if I let fear take me, then I shall never get out of these woods alive.” Again the wind sounded its call, and it took him only a second to realize both that the noise was moving this time against the wind, and that he was already running.
The call of the wolf was taken up behind him, coming from the north and south. He ran as hard as he could, but was limited by his straight narrow path. He longed for nothing more than to cut north, to try and find the wide road, but the wolves harried him always, forcing him west. His breathing was ragged, and his legs felt like they were composed entirely of wool, but he kept running. The thought that his life would soon end, and his carcass be left for scavengers was the only thought that prevented his collapse. He blinked rapidly to try and clear his head, to think positively, or at least try to cling to some semblance of sanity, but all he managed to achieve was the hallucination of lights in the distance.
With this illusion of safety so close at hand, and his brain in turmoil trying to keep him calm, he came to a realization. He had been taken by fear in its purest form since he set foot in the forest that afternoon. His attempts to convince himself that he was thinking rationally were only the final retaliation of a tired mind that wanted to end. Why else would he have come to this forest, what now seemed to him a personal hell?
As he lay on the floor, his shallow breaths making small furrows in the snow, a pair of wolves as black as death stepped out of the trees. To the south he thought. They howled victory, their shrill voices echoing like many wolves. But as they approached him, teeth bared and claws extended, he turned away, at last admitting that he was terrified. A white wolf, almost invisible in the snow, approached from the north. This wolf, he thought, is the one who kept me from finding the safety of the wide path, the safety of a probable crowd. The devil must have been reincarnated in this white wolf.
The white wolf sat back on its haunches and leaped forward, shouting its own challenge. As he closed his eyes and embraced his impending doom, he felt a presence like a warm wind pass over his body and land behind him. Startled, he turned around and saw the white wolf entangled with the two black, the twin deaths. Satan, it would appear, wanted to delay his death-whether to save him for some unknown reason, or simply so he could do the killing himself.
White and black clashed in furious battle, snarling and howling, biting and clawing, and at last the white wolf stood over the two blacks, bloodied but exuding a massive presence, an aura of both infinite beauty and ultimate fear. The two blacks retreated into the wood, and the white trotted over to the lone man. By this time, he had moved to a sitting position so he could watch the wolves vying for the privilege of killing him. The white wolf, however, showed no intent of violence, nor any malevolent thought at all. It merely sat next to him, still as stone, staring west.
He looked to the west and saw through clear eyes a town, his town. He looked upon it with ecstasy, and laid his hand on the wolf next to him. “Not a Devil after all,” he said, “But my own personal angel.”
Excuse the long entry, but I'm too lazy to figure out how to make a LiveJournal cut.
Parable of the Forest
He walked. The snow under his boots made a crisp crunching noise with each step, the soft sound echoing quietly through the thick wood around him. He was deep in though, contemplating the usual: life, love, and the everlasting remembrance of youth. As he walked, the forest became darker, and the path became more and more narrow. Soon, he walked on the fine edge of a knife, a trapeze wire ready to disappear into the gloom or snap in an instant.
As He entered the dark abyss of the forest, snow-covered sentinels towering around him, he began to let his thoughts wander into a sort of paranoid frenzy. What if he never found his way out of the abysmal forest? What if he lost the path in the accursed light of forest-dusk? Of course, he dismissed these thoughts as irrational and decided to keep walking. The path didn’t seem to be turning anytime soon, and it seemed obvious that if he stepped off of it that the extra crunch of a fern or small leafless bush would herald his mistake.
Just as he was regaining confidence, forming a protective shell around his mind, a distant noise carried by the wind made him pause. Was it real, or the final illusion of a mind currently in a state of terror? It must not have been there. It was just more irrational thinking; a devil’s attempt to instill fear into a righteous man.
He resumed his walk with a semblance of confidence. Everything would be all right. The last rays of sun filtered through the barren canopy of the forest, giving the scene a surreal quality and he found himself at a crossroads. He examined the paths, and found them both to be covered in snow, with no evidence of the preceding travelers that had inevitably made use of these woods. On one hand there was a large winding path that seemed to be heading in his current, and on the other was a narrow path, straight as an arrow, heading westward into the setting sun.
As he sat at the divergence of paths, he could not help but think of the great Robert Frost who, having encountered a similar experience, took the road less traveled by. Again and again, until the woods grew dark and the wind howled like a pack of wolves, he thought about which path he should take, all the while muttering to himself, “and I-I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.” With a grimace not unlike that of a scarecrow, he set off down the narrow path.
It was soon after he had chosen his straight and narrow path that he realized how difficult it was to stay on it in the dark. He was fumbling into the unknown, into nothingness, and all he could do was trust his feet and hope that the path never strayed from its course. He was startled by the wind, its dreadful dirge sounding again, almost identical to the sound of a pack of wolves. “Irrational thinking along those lines,” he said to himself aloud, must not be allowed to happen, for if I let fear take me, then I shall never get out of these woods alive.” Again the wind sounded its call, and it took him only a second to realize both that the noise was moving this time against the wind, and that he was already running.
The call of the wolf was taken up behind him, coming from the north and south. He ran as hard as he could, but was limited by his straight narrow path. He longed for nothing more than to cut north, to try and find the wide road, but the wolves harried him always, forcing him west. His breathing was ragged, and his legs felt like they were composed entirely of wool, but he kept running. The thought that his life would soon end, and his carcass be left for scavengers was the only thought that prevented his collapse. He blinked rapidly to try and clear his head, to think positively, or at least try to cling to some semblance of sanity, but all he managed to achieve was the hallucination of lights in the distance.
With this illusion of safety so close at hand, and his brain in turmoil trying to keep him calm, he came to a realization. He had been taken by fear in its purest form since he set foot in the forest that afternoon. His attempts to convince himself that he was thinking rationally were only the final retaliation of a tired mind that wanted to end. Why else would he have come to this forest, what now seemed to him a personal hell?
As he lay on the floor, his shallow breaths making small furrows in the snow, a pair of wolves as black as death stepped out of the trees. To the south he thought. They howled victory, their shrill voices echoing like many wolves. But as they approached him, teeth bared and claws extended, he turned away, at last admitting that he was terrified. A white wolf, almost invisible in the snow, approached from the north. This wolf, he thought, is the one who kept me from finding the safety of the wide path, the safety of a probable crowd. The devil must have been reincarnated in this white wolf.
The white wolf sat back on its haunches and leaped forward, shouting its own challenge. As he closed his eyes and embraced his impending doom, he felt a presence like a warm wind pass over his body and land behind him. Startled, he turned around and saw the white wolf entangled with the two black, the twin deaths. Satan, it would appear, wanted to delay his death-whether to save him for some unknown reason, or simply so he could do the killing himself.
White and black clashed in furious battle, snarling and howling, biting and clawing, and at last the white wolf stood over the two blacks, bloodied but exuding a massive presence, an aura of both infinite beauty and ultimate fear. The two blacks retreated into the wood, and the white trotted over to the lone man. By this time, he had moved to a sitting position so he could watch the wolves vying for the privilege of killing him. The white wolf, however, showed no intent of violence, nor any malevolent thought at all. It merely sat next to him, still as stone, staring west.
He looked to the west and saw through clear eyes a town, his town. He looked upon it with ecstasy, and laid his hand on the wolf next to him. “Not a Devil after all,” he said, “But my own personal angel.”
Excuse the long entry, but I'm too lazy to figure out how to make a LiveJournal cut.