Metaphorical bread.
Not so long ago in a land not so far away...
There once was a small boy. For the sake of our story we'll call him homeless. His name means nothing so much as his story. Descibing his features would not do him justice. There is no literal way to anthropomorphize him, save to say that he was hungry. Every day he went about his regular begging for food on the street corners after he was excused from his rather less than adequate profession of giving advice to passers'-by. Sometimes he was obliged by a patron or two and would eat for the day. Sometimes he recieved a roll or two, but usually not more than a peice of fruit or a slice of hard-tack. On one magnificent day he was given a half-dozen glazed doughnuts. But they made him sick. The next day he was given a couple bakery-fresh rolls, but they left him unsatasfied. It would be over a year before he would eat well. And when he did it was wonderful. It gave him the occasional indigestion and general disagreeableness that a good meal often does after one has quite literally starved themselves for so long. He could hardly complain though, he was eating like a king every day. But as always it left him unsatasfied and empty; painfully so this time. For a long time after, he only ate to survive. And then, only bits of scraps and things that would nourish him for the moment.
One day it seemed, however that his luck was about to change. While at his usual haunt, a local bakery that would give him crumbs and things, he observed the most tantilizing thing that had graced his retinas for the whole of his thus far, short existance. It was a single pastry. Outwardly it appeared to be vastly no different from anything else on the shelf. It was a simple confection, made presumably from the same ingredients as every thing else. As a matter of fact, it paled in comparison to a few of the other delectable treats that hung in display cases and rested on shelves. They were all wrapped in beautiful paper. As pleasing to the eye as to the palate. He had tasted them before though. Unwrapping them alone was a marvelous experience. They even tasted like small slices what he imagined could only be heaven in the form of baked goods. But they always left him unsatasfied and sometimes even with painful indigestion. This pastry, however, was wrapped in plain brown paper and set neatly inside a small wooden box with a modest square shaped wire-frame view on the front.
He couldn't figure out why, but he was captivated by it. Perhaps it was the subtle craftsmanship of the gift-box in which it was wrapped. Or maybe it was the skillful way the plain brown paper caressed the supple curves of the simple grocery. Or still, could it be the aroma that it produced that sent his nostrals to depths of pain that could only be described by the flames of hell and the back up to the highest reaches of all that human achievement and all of its aquired knowledge could describe as simply and ineffably good. Or more simply the note that was attached to the front of the box. The small note, was written on nothing more than a dimunuative swatch of everyday press paper. It read, "This loaf of simple bread was free in cost only. It also belongs to someone else." Even as its gift box and its craftmanship flirted with his eyes, its plain wrapping entertained the poetry in his mind, and its scent took him on a journy, his heart, which he had thought had already reached the bottom, fell, just a little.
This plain bread outshined all of the expensive confections in it's simplicity. It met his every sense with a feeling of contentment. Even after all the other things he had had that left him empty and unsatasfied, he thought... no, he knew that this one would satasfy and fill him like nothing else he had ever tasted. No false disillusionment, or internal persuasion could shake the feeling that he would never again come across such a perfect specimen of loving craftmanship poured into such a simple thing. Even as intensely as he knew that this bread would save him, that note still loomed. Nothing he could do would make it his. Not ever. He could he steal it from it's rightful owner he thought. Why would someone just leave such a wonderful treat out, in a store no less? He couldn't help but think though that whoever owned it didn't deserve it if they treated such a treasure so neglectfully.(Even if it was, after all, just a peice of bread, it deserved respect, if only for the work that was put into making it such a peice of art.) Even so, it did belong to someone else. They had probably just forgot about it for a moment and would be back shortly to pick it up. And that, he thought, was the end of it, a fleeting glimse, as easily ended.
He returned to the bakery as he always did. At first he expected the box to be gone. A quick visual scan of the place revealed that this was not so. Every day it was still perched in the same spot, unopened. Strangely though, it still had the same aroma that it had always had. The smell of fresh baked bread cannot be mistaken. Curious, he thought, that it would still be here. And still fresh. He inquired with the owner of the bakery, sure enough it belonged to someone else. The owner of the bread box came in to see it every day, made sure it was kept fresh and then left it. Odd, to say the least. Still, he reminded himself,
"It belongs to another man, a man much better than I. He must be if he could afford something like this." And so, he respected this mans ownership of the confection and did no more than allow the scent of it permeate his nose just one last time.
Every morning at the same time he returned to the same bakery to smell the same loaf of bread. All the while he hoped, secretly, shamefully, that the baker would see the neglect of the man who owned the bread, and the hunger of the little boy and decide that justice was more important that contractual commitment and grant the boy even a slice of it. His hope would be kept silent for now, but it was hope nonetheless. Now with an empty belly and weakened will, he only looked into the window of the shop, to see if the note that claimed ownership of the bread had been removed yet.
This is just a story about bread. An allegory if you will. Sad, perhaps. But truth comes in many forms and from many perspectives. But it is truth nonetheless. From the perspective of an author it means more than wheat germ and flour. From your perspective it may be about mere food stuffs. Perhaps not. Even so I wrote it and I like it. I would never presume to attach an unshakeable metaphor to this story. It is a very specific allegory to me, but everyone has things that they want and cannot have. Read it from that perspective, don't try to deduce what it means to me, less you cheapen the story.
There once was a small boy. For the sake of our story we'll call him homeless. His name means nothing so much as his story. Descibing his features would not do him justice. There is no literal way to anthropomorphize him, save to say that he was hungry. Every day he went about his regular begging for food on the street corners after he was excused from his rather less than adequate profession of giving advice to passers'-by. Sometimes he was obliged by a patron or two and would eat for the day. Sometimes he recieved a roll or two, but usually not more than a peice of fruit or a slice of hard-tack. On one magnificent day he was given a half-dozen glazed doughnuts. But they made him sick. The next day he was given a couple bakery-fresh rolls, but they left him unsatasfied. It would be over a year before he would eat well. And when he did it was wonderful. It gave him the occasional indigestion and general disagreeableness that a good meal often does after one has quite literally starved themselves for so long. He could hardly complain though, he was eating like a king every day. But as always it left him unsatasfied and empty; painfully so this time. For a long time after, he only ate to survive. And then, only bits of scraps and things that would nourish him for the moment.
One day it seemed, however that his luck was about to change. While at his usual haunt, a local bakery that would give him crumbs and things, he observed the most tantilizing thing that had graced his retinas for the whole of his thus far, short existance. It was a single pastry. Outwardly it appeared to be vastly no different from anything else on the shelf. It was a simple confection, made presumably from the same ingredients as every thing else. As a matter of fact, it paled in comparison to a few of the other delectable treats that hung in display cases and rested on shelves. They were all wrapped in beautiful paper. As pleasing to the eye as to the palate. He had tasted them before though. Unwrapping them alone was a marvelous experience. They even tasted like small slices what he imagined could only be heaven in the form of baked goods. But they always left him unsatasfied and sometimes even with painful indigestion. This pastry, however, was wrapped in plain brown paper and set neatly inside a small wooden box with a modest square shaped wire-frame view on the front.
He couldn't figure out why, but he was captivated by it. Perhaps it was the subtle craftsmanship of the gift-box in which it was wrapped. Or maybe it was the skillful way the plain brown paper caressed the supple curves of the simple grocery. Or still, could it be the aroma that it produced that sent his nostrals to depths of pain that could only be described by the flames of hell and the back up to the highest reaches of all that human achievement and all of its aquired knowledge could describe as simply and ineffably good. Or more simply the note that was attached to the front of the box. The small note, was written on nothing more than a dimunuative swatch of everyday press paper. It read, "This loaf of simple bread was free in cost only. It also belongs to someone else." Even as its gift box and its craftmanship flirted with his eyes, its plain wrapping entertained the poetry in his mind, and its scent took him on a journy, his heart, which he had thought had already reached the bottom, fell, just a little.
This plain bread outshined all of the expensive confections in it's simplicity. It met his every sense with a feeling of contentment. Even after all the other things he had had that left him empty and unsatasfied, he thought... no, he knew that this one would satasfy and fill him like nothing else he had ever tasted. No false disillusionment, or internal persuasion could shake the feeling that he would never again come across such a perfect specimen of loving craftmanship poured into such a simple thing. Even as intensely as he knew that this bread would save him, that note still loomed. Nothing he could do would make it his. Not ever. He could he steal it from it's rightful owner he thought. Why would someone just leave such a wonderful treat out, in a store no less? He couldn't help but think though that whoever owned it didn't deserve it if they treated such a treasure so neglectfully.(Even if it was, after all, just a peice of bread, it deserved respect, if only for the work that was put into making it such a peice of art.) Even so, it did belong to someone else. They had probably just forgot about it for a moment and would be back shortly to pick it up. And that, he thought, was the end of it, a fleeting glimse, as easily ended.
He returned to the bakery as he always did. At first he expected the box to be gone. A quick visual scan of the place revealed that this was not so. Every day it was still perched in the same spot, unopened. Strangely though, it still had the same aroma that it had always had. The smell of fresh baked bread cannot be mistaken. Curious, he thought, that it would still be here. And still fresh. He inquired with the owner of the bakery, sure enough it belonged to someone else. The owner of the bread box came in to see it every day, made sure it was kept fresh and then left it. Odd, to say the least. Still, he reminded himself,
"It belongs to another man, a man much better than I. He must be if he could afford something like this." And so, he respected this mans ownership of the confection and did no more than allow the scent of it permeate his nose just one last time.
Every morning at the same time he returned to the same bakery to smell the same loaf of bread. All the while he hoped, secretly, shamefully, that the baker would see the neglect of the man who owned the bread, and the hunger of the little boy and decide that justice was more important that contractual commitment and grant the boy even a slice of it. His hope would be kept silent for now, but it was hope nonetheless. Now with an empty belly and weakened will, he only looked into the window of the shop, to see if the note that claimed ownership of the bread had been removed yet.
This is just a story about bread. An allegory if you will. Sad, perhaps. But truth comes in many forms and from many perspectives. But it is truth nonetheless. From the perspective of an author it means more than wheat germ and flour. From your perspective it may be about mere food stuffs. Perhaps not. Even so I wrote it and I like it. I would never presume to attach an unshakeable metaphor to this story. It is a very specific allegory to me, but everyone has things that they want and cannot have. Read it from that perspective, don't try to deduce what it means to me, less you cheapen the story.