The Melting Pot

Upon the spiked outskirts, there is a crooked forest, too dry and barren is its Land; too much did they dig, and plough, and sink. They pound away at these spiked trees, these defiant angry pikes, to go against the protective armour of an Ivory Castle.

*

AT THE FIELD OF MELTING GOLD

The Gold blinds many. They cannot touch it, lest they burn up in its flames. So hot is this Land that there is a very large field of liquid Gold, it will not solidify. It is a melting pot of Wealth so opposed to any Other Land, that it calls forth many worshippers, and many Servants.

They want the Gold, yes. But they want the prize more, for there is an Ivory Castle, the grandest of all Castles; a spectacle to the eye, the pinnacle of Desire. And, to whomever should live there would have the Power to govern every Land, and thus the Land itself.

But to get to the Ivory Castle, one must cross the field of melting Gold. Many believe they can swim through and into the middle. Alas, the meek melt first, and the rest endure the un-lived Life.

For there is a delicacy to their glorified-yearnings, an emotion, eating from the ground. Eaten up by the ground. These swelled emotions are set. Every Man is not himself, nor every Woman. They have created a Depression and now they wear it. They pin it to their flesh with little splinters of Gold, or shards of broken Coin. All of them, with some useless detail, running themselves to the ground just to prove it. All of them, localising the hinge, and contouring the press.

Sinking as deep as the Gold would allow; consuming the vast park that surrounds this Melting Pot. There is much to peel: a creature devoured; a marriage entangled. They make their dwellings bear close. They follow the Gold until they are swallowed. But they do not believe in a door, nor a gate, nor even a window to peer. They have thrown their house and home into the Melting Pot; into the pursuit they go!

Ever do they scheme to get into the Ivory Castle, the skeleton on which the masterpiece would be carved!

*

CRUSADE OF THE FANTASIST

In the heat, twenty thousand Servants of Gold do flock. So far have the crusaders traveled. They speak with such conviction, but no words can save their broken hearts. Their emotions are larger, more pronounced. One can tell by the way they demand Gold. They are bleating, they are naked.

There is a She-Creature, She herself has had a longer Life than most. She understands that there are two lives; understands the mind is striven by all that goes un-lived. She knows, that to go higher one must sink to the bottom, into a failure deserved, and into a debt resolved.

And so, She meets those who would give dust to the melting pot: give it sand, give it powders. They all hope to dry the Gold to a block of mighty Wealth, willing of the pain when these schemes pull forth.

But of these thousands, it is always the Fantasist who falls first into the Melting Pot. Into a bed of loose, saturated Gold. The Fantasist yields under the weight and is brought down from the surface and into a Gold-Death.

They refuse to believe that all of this suffering leads to failure! There must be a happy ending! For these are the schemes of the desperate. They believe with their ignorance. They lead forth with it: with a Curse in their left hand, they are blind to the Cure in their right.

Herein, the chronicles of Coin have set their stage. Too often has She promised more Coin than She has for the sake of a fleeting pleasure. Too often has She wished above her means with chattering Hopes that exceed their merit.

And with no shining conviction, the vanity of the quick-minded is allowed to close over. They will be swallowed up! For they are kept by the negative shape of conformity; lost on the familiar road of monotony; pushed back by the hesitation. Into the Pot, into the Pot!

Death concurs: if they are in a prolonged state of not-being-enough, then a defeat will settle. Futility then has won its war.

They are given a choice: the Melting Pot, or Change?

*

INVESTIGATOR, WHY NO CHANGE?

She peers out, her eyes meet with her fellow servants. Celestial lips speak through them as they wear their softer sides. They are dreamers. They all share the same dreams. For there is a sweet innocence, they have hungry children, they adorn those they Love, they are motived by this innocence. Just as their goodness rests upon the soft sheltering amidst the fire-roses.

At sunrise their fresh eyes gather. They breakfast together, there is a laughter in the air. This haze and more brings goodly songs, but when their pockets lay empty, they do what they can. They are motivated by Love, yet are turned by the dark hand of Greed. It is enough to set their forms against Nature. These thriftless servants play amidst these Gold threads. They are hard-skinned, but when their sides are soft, they are jolly.

Alas, the denial of Life is harsh, fire-birds do roost high and sing low.

The worst part of her task is disorientating; the She-Creature is to learn how to be satisfied with such unfavourable odds! They are ALL covered in the dust of lost opportunity. They fall from the side, not trusting their own balance.

But lo! How dare She even croak such things! Her investigations should be silent, and kept in such a manner befitting her insignificance.

Little can She charm those who suffer. The men and women laugh and cry. They are Children of Culture. Fast, busy, over grass and clover. Never can they guess just how precious the grass they tread and trample is. And then they roll over in exhaustion, attending to the shrine of futile rage.

She sees how they all suffer. From far and wide, the heat enrages the soul. It calls to them like a shame-apple rolling. This Apple comes from the Melting Pot, hanging upside down, restricted by Time.

And until the Ivory Castle is reached, every scheme will seem unreasonable. Out of every scheme will come a folly. There is no response, just the immediate act of scheming. It is a cruel form of Faith, to make Life open its arms, to be given only a foul-Apple.

But the Moral is not to be chased around the Melting Pot. The Ivory Castle is a crusted illusion. The narrative stands as such: those who have Gold are seen as admirable, those who do not have Gold are seen as worthless.

Herein lies the Desire of Gold, they are shown what it is to Lack, they fight against it! Their own Worth melts in the heat of their own disgust. The more unworthy they feel, the more heat is raised. And so, every-thing melts!

*

A CURE IN HER RIGHT HAND

On the hottest day yet, these thousand hungry souls consider throwing the She-Creature alive into the Melting Pot. Maybe SHE will dry the melting field, such is the argument that unfolds.

She runs from the hoards to a quiet place upon the dry forest. There is a mirror amidst the dry grass. She sees herself as a lowly Fantasist, that She too will soon throw herself to the Melting Pot of her own accord. But at what cost will She obtain the Gold!

In her left hand, She would see herself burn in this pursuit of Gold. In her right hand, She would hold the mirror high, and see the Truth.

The decision is made: She cuts off her left hand, and holds the right high.

Before the mirror, her flesh begins peeling away to reveal a white body beneath the surface, as bright as can be. Hers is the touch that can take away their suffering. Like the wind against their weary faces; their limbs and shoulders soften—a Cure!

Back to the field of melting Gold, She throws the Cure out as far as She can fling, it grows a mighty bridge that ALL may cross.

*

FRIVOLOUS WOUNDS

Up into the Ivory Castle She goes, the beauty is a beauty that cannot be foretold. Into the centre there is a pyre, it burns at first sight; leaving in the ashes a little black notebook.

The Melting Pot forms itself as to be read aloud.

She reads and thus speaks the words of this book, the Gold dries.

Another spell comes from her lips, there appears twenty thousand Gold coins.

Improvising such a burden as this, renouncing the immortality of Gold, the rooms of the Ivory Castle are now filled with every Mortal nearby: twenty thousand creatures. She gives a Gold coin to each; She gives so that Others may live better.

For their wounds are made as if they were frivolous, they need a heavier weight. There has long been a sickness over them, and only good treatment will suffice when the Cure does come.

*

Upon this book there is written the spells and legends of Coin and Gold. And, it is with this book She learns of her riches, and strives no more for Gold.

She listens to the council of History; there is a large amount of red. But here, the bloom of debt is withering! A purge of Coin has begun of Coin that has been hoarded so long! ALL should be given a liveable house and food enough to survive. Where mortal needs are met, where one derives basic survival with no grand worry. Yes, they may still strive for larger-things, they may have purpose and contempt; but they are not to be given over to such a depression, not to be given over to the throwing of oneself into the Melting Pot.

Through this, She will come to know the product of her own error! But as She is dressed in circumstances less than encouraging, the heat will remain to burn lest She learns to read the remaining pages once singed by the Melting Pot of Gold.

*

Lesson:

When Time comes to an end, Coin will not lend to those who now die of the un-lived Life.