Once upon a time, there was this little guy. He had a weirdish childhood. He was a bit smaller than all the other boys. And, he was smart and sensitive, so even though it was hard for him to develop detachment, he was keenly aware of his inability to detach. It gave him minor torture, because he would see himself not detaching, and it was a difficult problem to understand and confront.
To combat his discomfort, the little guy told stories about people he wish he were. They were good stories. Lost of people could relate to them. That became his job.
When he became an adult, he told stories and sung songs, and it was righteous. He got everyone involved and pondering their lives and enjoying what they were doing, and questioning how they should go about things. It made the little guy feel good. It took him places.
But, then he realized that he started feeling like things were OK, which made it hard to continue making his stories and sings and little things like that. He tried. It was hard. He became sad, and all the people that liked him started to forget about all the good stuff he could do for them.
And this bizarre thing happened. Right when everything got as bad as can be, he made up the best story and song he ever did. It made him famous. And, things were going right again. And, he was adored.
Throngs of people would come to him unannounced and proclaim their devotion to him. This was overwhelming. And, the little guy was in bliss. He started forgetting that he wasn’t the guy in his stories. He started thinking he and the stories and songs and performances were one.
He felt special. He had a certain power. And, it was a good power. Then the little guy started replaying his hibernation and emergence – always with new stuff. He turned into a furry bear that would growl at anyone who came to his cave. And, in the spring he would turn into a golden deer leaping across a babbling brook with lens flares shooting off his teeth. Bing!
That little guy sure turned out to be a dick.
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