“‘Tis a pity,” said the mongoose to the wildcat, when he arrived back in the palace. “It seems I have misplaced my footwear in the garden.” “What a shame!” replied the wildcat, “I always did believe in ghosts.” The aardvark in the corner was a much better guest, but that was in the olden days. Now the lore is much more subdued.
Whilst the trio of crazies were fancifully fulfilling the roles of each in their own way, the trains rolled on through the night. The owls flew overhead and the mice all cheered for the moon. “To be in this state,” thought the bear to himself, “must be an odd feeling for a moose.” The trap thought the same, although much more subdued, for when did the iron ever think on its own? On through the evening, the great horses ran. The steam off them rolling, the coal burning through. “Oh, for a daisy!” cried the great blue lagoon, and the fish all swam in a pool.
“To go to school! That is our goal,” exclaimed the one with the beard and the shovel. They all soon agreed, and off they traversed, to see why the cows all cried “Moo!” For the cats in the cradle, this is not strange: to see all these odd things in play. For when does it happen, that all this is written, and where does the drunk priest pray?
These were the thoughts that ran through his head, as he sat at the base of the tree. A bit too much ale and a tad too much bagel, this is what ruined his day. So, let this be a lesson to those who are wary, to never go out for a stroll. When the moon is all purple, and the parrots are crying, and the whimsical take up a pen. Woe to the man who makes sense of this. His brain soon might take leave of him.
With that, I bid you good night.
There once lived a man who had many dreams. He dreamed so much, in fact, that he was seldom ever awake. Naturally, this did strange things to his metabolism, and he wasn’t the skinniest person to grace the presence of his village. Of course, he lived in a forest village. All people in cool fairy tales do.
This man was a very philosophical dreamer. He dreamt of cats that were both dead and alive, he had visions of caves in which people could see naught but shadows, and he even dreamed of bagels. Obviously, bagels are very philosophical. One day, when he was awake, he decided that he would go for a stroll into town. Town was a grand area. All of the rich, pompous, well-to-do, and educated lived in the town. This was a small town, with the small-town mentality. The ironic thing about the small-town mentality is that the small-towners believe they should treat their small town like a big town. The rich think they are very rich. The pompous are even more inflated than normal. The well-to-do act as if they have nothing to do, and the educated are exceedingly proud of their relative learnedness. Anyway, our man is taking a stroll.
I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a large person stroll, but it’s can be quite the humorous sight. Descriptively, it’s one of the most gratifying experiences for an author. There happened to be one there that day. In his words:
I don’t believe I’ve ever seen anything quite like it. The man walked – nay – waddled off of his front porch. The stairs creaked and flexed under his massive boots. I’m sure the wood cursed the day it was born a tree. His jacket was made of a coarse green wool. The black buttons stood out well; he was missing the third from the top. His white undershirt showed through the gap. His pants were made of a black rough cloth. He wore his wide black belt over his jacket. His boots came to between his knee and his ankle, their brown leather was dusty but new-looking from years of non-use. He ambled down the path to the road. He wheezed quietly as he lifted the gate pin, the wrinkles on his forehead creasing slightly as he looked around. He then turned and sauntered into the sunrise, and I got distracted by my breakfast.
Our friend walked down the road towards the town, and he was soon passed by a taxi. The taxi driver, seeing the ample traveler, slowed his horses and waited for the fellow to catch up.
“Hello, my good sir!” he shouted from the box, “Would you like a ride into town?”
“I do believe I would,” replied the rather winded pedestrian.
“Well then, hop in.”
Of course, hopping was out of the question, but our friend managed to mount the carriage and settle into the seats. In the seat opposite him was a very interesting sight.
“Mrs. Amelia Hogg,” said the lady on the other side of the cab.
“James,” our wide-girthed dreamer said, “my name’s James Darke.”
As stated before, Mrs. Amelia was a very interesting looking lady. Tall, thin, and quite round, not at all unlike a pencil, she was clad in a burgundy dress with black frills and buttons. Perched on her head was the strangest scene of all. I say scene, and you shall soon see why. Upon her head sat a nest. Not just any nest, but a nest made of magical bluewood. In the nest were several kittens, an owl, a mouse, and an egg.The owl appeared to James to be very distinguished. He sat upon the nest and observed the kittens as they played a sort of catch with the mouse. The mouse itself was not being harmed; it would, from time to time, escape the kittens and lick itself. Then the game would begin again. The egg sat nearby and did nothing, as eggs often do.
James stared at the hat for a moment, “you have a very interesting headpiece.”
“Well, it helps to entertain fellow taxi riders.”
“I suppose it does.”
“Do you ever entertain, Mr Darke?”
“Oh yes, I entertain my own fancy all of the time.”
“Not quite what I meant. You see, I like to entertain through projection.”
“Yes, projection of thoughts. It’s a method of viewing others which requires very little interaction and provides great mental entertainment.”
At this James perked up, as much as his rotund figure allowed.
“That sounds right up my alley,” he exclaimed. “I’m a dreamer, you see.”
“Oh, that’s grand! Everyone views certain others this way. Until the projection is replaced, you cannot even think otherwise!”
The conversation droned on for a while longer, but I’ll not bore you with the details. Soon, the taxi arrived in town. Saying farewell, the two parted and went about their respective businesses. James soon became tired and desired to sleep. A nice bench was sitting by a bakery, so he plopped his large frame onto the seat and provided the metalwork with a great deal of added stress. Soon he began dreaming of projections and theories that he had never thought of. “Everyone views someone in an artificial way,” Amelia had said. “Imagine for a moment that you don’t know anyone very well. You’d like to know them, or perhaps they come up in conversation with others. You will base your thoughts, opinions, and even appraisals of that person on your perceived image of them.” A pink kangaroo waltzed by the window. “As you think of these people that you don’t know well, you will begin to form an image of them in your head. You will fill in details where they are lacking. You will predict their actions based on how they respond. You may even insert them into your dreams as filler actors. These people are your projections. They’re quite real inside of your head, but that’s the only place that they exist.” The bench creaks slightly, giving James the illusion that he’s sinking. “It’s fun to provide people with as many skewed samples of yourself as possible. Hence the reason why I wear such a ridiculous hat.”
James awoke with a start. Evidentially, a horse had mistaken his hair as grass and had begun to pull on it. “Well that was odd,” he thought as he walked away, “I don’t think I’ll ever see people anymore.” For you see, we never truly know people, we can only know what we see in them. Someone else may see an entirely different set of attributes from what you see. The projection formed will be quite different from your own. And this is why James went home, ate a large roll of cheese, and didn’t wake up for a week. He met many people in his dreams; some of them were nice, some of them were not, and some of them were even real.