The Philosopher

Once upon a morrow, there lived a Philosopher of the highest degree. He could dialogue the laces off a shoe, debate the bark off a tree, and doubt the moon into darkness once a month. It was rumored that he thought so hard about the vanity of gravity, the earth started spinning in the opposite direction to hide its blush. He was always right about anything that was worth being right about. Which means everything excluding nothing. Which means nothing excluding everything? I don't know, ask the philosopher.

One day the Philosopher walked about the town to sniff out the most delectable doings and horrible habits alike of the people within. Like sorting the ripe from the rotten weighing on the branches, it was the philosopher's self-imposed duty to keep the orchard of his dwelling in check. For he was the first wisest second to none of the third.

"Good morrow fine lad."

"Good morrow indeed! Tell me, Philosopher, explain to me the strength of the day. Is the morrow good if the marrow is bad?

Is it morrow or marrow that harrows the sorrow?"

"Oh, my son, ye have much to learn. I have tested tomorrow every day since yesterday and have come to the following conclusion:

When morrow is hollow, marrow wallows.

When morrow is narrow, marrow sorrows.

When morrow is hallowed, marrow mellows.

And when morrow is swallowed, marrow reigns as pharaoh."

After much thinking and then some more, the lad replied, "Hmm. You have explained little, but for a forced rhyme to pharaoh."

"Well... I... I think you are too small to be doing this kind of thinking," sniffed the Philosopher violently as he moved to the next house.

"Hello my dear lady."

"Hello Sir Philosopher! Tell me, sir, why it is that the bird must break out of shell to find its perfect coat while the snail breaks into shell to find its perfect coat while the turtle - already born with its perfect coat - breaks out of shell searching for what? For what does the turtle search that it does not already own?"

"Ah, a worthy question begging a worthy answer. The turtle eats the bird eats the snail eats the dirt. The dirt grows the green that hides the turtle. Crash come the waves of destruction. All is washed away, save for the precious pearl, growing and nurturing the tiny turtle within its thin, delicate, eggshell walls. I feel the heartbeat of a new life forming, hope and love fall gently from the sky and cup their protective hands around the innocent. What is the deepest, gasping yearning of a fresh born soul? What need is so pressing that he rips open the peaceful womb of safety to face the wrath of a dark, unforgiving world? Quite simply, the turtle is hungry and bored. He dumbly seeks for food and entertainment. Quite like the looks of your husband, I daresay."

It is a tragedy among the ranks of Jack's fallen beanstalk and Midas's deathly touch that such a stunning and eloquent answer received the slam of a door in his face. With the stomp of his boot that sent a lizard running, the Philosopher turned to the next house.

"And you, you old rascal, what have you to say for yourself?"

It was hard to tell whether his forehead or his belly sagged and sweated more in the stagnant heat. A fly buzzed lazily into his ear, and he itched it all the lazier still.

"I sacrifice my time to bend to the likes of you, and you remain silent?"

His unfocused eyes wandered up to meet the Philosopher's stern gaze. His dry mouth parted ever so slightly as if to speak, then licked his lips and sealed them again.

"Up to half my kingdom of knowledge I would have freely given, but you are too dumb to understand whom you are looking at. Be gone, you fool, I leave you to rust."

The Philosopher walked away, offended to the utmost. With a mighty yawn, a magnificent stretch, and three noble, clockwise circles, the dog laid down to nap happily uninterrupted.

By now, the Philosopher was becoming increasingly weary of the plebian town and decided to return to more agreeable company. He was lost in thought of rocks and trees and the reeds by the lake that quietly applauded his every move, when he came upon a child.

"Hello young one, why ye bother with that frog?"

"Mr. Philosopher, what do you love?" She asked in sweet sincerity.

"Knowledge" said he.

"What does this frog love?" her little blue eyes twinkling up at him.

"Mud."

"So, Mr. Philosopher, which one came first, and which one lasts longer?"

"Indubitably and forevermore knowledge."

"Prove it," was the last thing he ever heard.

Dumbfounded, the Philosopher sat upon a stump nearby to gather supplies from the edges of his vast mind and construct a mansion of a perfect answer. He sat so still and thought so hard and for so long that he turned to stone. The vines climbed up to the curves of his bowed shoulders, chin resting on hand, and during the rainy season, the mud advanced to cover his boots.