The king, the fool, and the dreamer. Date Tuesday, April 16, 2024 - 09:13 AM PST Topic Entertainment By Evan Rider The king sits on his throne, alone, abandoned by his queen, his vanguard, and his children. The king weeps a tear for days past, the king cries for the days of struggle long gone, and he sheds a tear for each day of his life that has past. He runs from his throne, throwing down the crown, and out the large doors of his castle. The fool sits among friends in the bar, talking of things long past, joking of jokes long told, and remembering debts unpaid. The fool laughs heartily over all, but enjoys no real joke, for the fear of tomorrow resides in the fool like an ever-present specter, destroying his faith and making him what he is- a fool. The dreamer lies on the mat of his home, and looks at all that surrounds him. His wife lies next to him, his love, his passion. His reason to continue is downstairs, as his child sleeps on a reed mat, waiting for his father to make enough money for him to afford a bed, but never giving up hope in his father. The dreamer dreams of the future, without taking heed of the steps to reach that future. The dreamer dreams of the destination, not the journey. The king wishes he was the dreamer; the dreamer wishes he was the king; and the fool wishes he had something of both. They do not know each other, but they know each desires something of the others. The king runs through the empty palace in the late night, feeling the emptiness of all around him, feeling fear of these walls that hold no love for him; he fears this palace more than he fears death itself, for to be alone here is death. The king cries openly as he runs, cries remembering the days when these walls held love, and the stones were fresh, the paintings were new and clean. The king runs out the doors of the palace, in to the garden. The fool laughs his second to last laugh, and brings his lips to a glass containing the one thing that will keep his fear away for the moment. The fool loves all around him, yet hates them at the same moment. In love with the people, in contempt of the soul. The fool lives without any friends, without any true love, and lives alone. The fool parts his lips and the brew moves down his throat, its horrid taste being wiped away by the love of Ambrose that the mob has instilled him with. The fool is not happy with this place, but can only wish that it would change, because the fool knows he is the fool, and no fool can change the world around him. The dreamer stands quietly in his room and picks his robe from the closet. He slips it on quietly and opens the door more quietly. He tiptoes down the stairs, and looks upon his son, his dream, his better. His son will be everything that he cannot, and the dreamer knows this, and feels an upwelling of love and joy about this, for it is all a father can wish; a son that is better than him. The king's garden is empty; it's plants long decayed or overgrown, a place that presents that forest primeval so well. Moss has overtaken the noble fight with stone, and the walls of green leaves backed by sharp twigs fight against the king's escape. This is the worst darkness of all; this is the hardest part of the journey for the king. Branches and weeds tug on his royal vestments, his robe is torn and his cloak is ripped from his body. He runs, fearful of the things behind him, less fearful of every step that pushes him closer to an unknown destination. The fool's last laugh is cut short by a hand grabbing his collar, a large, muscular hand. The fool knows pain is coming; the fool is prepared to feel this representative of pain present it's thoughts. The fool silently prays that this representative makes his message quicker than the last three representatives have, as the world slips away from him. The fool knows his destination all too well. The dreamer looks at his son's sleeping face, and cries tears for his son. The dreamer is joyous, so happy that what little he has is his. His world is small; but his dreams are large, and vast, and colorful. The colors he dreams are vivid reds and blues for his clothing, of soft fabrics, and food with flavor. Not just salt, or pepper, but vinegar, olive oils, and rich butter. His dreams are an escape from the real world to place where he can lay vast plans; and though most of the plans collapse with the awakening, the dreamer still returns to them every night, as a faithful believer in luck and predestination. The dreamer's tears turn sad, and he sits by his son now, weeping. The king steps out on to a vast plane, bordering the edge of the ocean. The garden, the castle, the specters now stand behind him, and he sees only the first rays of sun turning the sky a beautiful purple, in preparation for another beautiful sunrise. The king has not seen a sunrise in quite a while; the last the king saw was a sunrise on a battlefield, with the cost of that sunrise being his brother and his father. The king walks to the edge of the shore, stands with his cut feet in the splashing of waves, and cries. The king cries and waits for the sun to rise, to show him that today, he exists again. The fool cries as the fist slams into his stomach again, and feels some whiskey move forward into his throat, then out. The floor is stained with blood and regurgitated liquor now, and the fist slams again. And again. And again. The fool feels much pain; pain he feared, pain he lied for. The fool has feared this moment worst of all, this moment where all business that was unfinished becomes finished. The fool has tried everything to escape this moment, and, sadly, everything was not enough. And the fist slams again. The dreamer cries softly by his son, his dream. The dreamer's wife comes down the stairs, with her sensitive mother's ears hearing what the son has yet to hear. She crouches down and hugs the dreamer, who then collapses in to her arms and weeps openly. His tears mix every emotion the dreamer knows of, which amounts to quite a few, considering how much the dreamer dreams. He cries in to his wife's breast, and she comforts him while they walk back upstairs. The son opens his eye to make sure they're gone, and begins to cry softly for his father, though he is not sure why. The king sits by the ocean; the cool of the breeze chilling his skin at the same time the sun warms him. His feels secure now, away from the palace, the empty place. The king stares at the sunrise with awe, as if this is the first sunrise the king has ever seen. The king stares fixedly then at a small fish that swims up just to the edge of the water, the swims back timidly as the waves recede again, as if it has no control, and just moves with the flow of the water. The king realizes that the fish is he, moving with the flow, unable to change. The king stands, rising to his full height, and stares out to the ocean, looking for guidance. The king finds it, and walks along the beach, to a new life. The fool crouches in the dark alley, clutching his stomach, forehead in contact with the vomit and blood that is pooled on the ground. The fool vomits again, noticing a tooth in the newest addition to a growing collection of mixed liquids. The fool begins to cry, unable to control the waves of fear rushing over him or the feeling of failure overtaking all will to live. He falls on his side against the ground, and goes to sleep. The fool begins to dream, and awakes to the sun risen and smiling upon him, with his body covered in a cold sweat. The fool staggers home, pondering if his debt is now considered paid. The dreamer sleeps, dried tears making small salt lines down his cheeks. The dreamers begins to dream, and awakes to find his wife downstairs, cooking a small meal. He opens the door to step outside and sees his son playing with a small toy. The dreamer rushes out and picks up his son and hugs him, his love, his joy, and his dream. "The hardest step on the road of life is the next one, for it is my choice and my choice alone to make." This article comes from Shmeng http://www.shmeng.com/ The URL for this story is: http://www.shmeng.com/modules.php?op=modload&name=News&file=article&sid=172