My best friend came out from down below. She’s a mole. “What’s going on, Chirop? The same old?” I didn’t say anything, but I rolled my eyes because it was true. “Let it go, if they’re not ready to hear.” She was right, but part of me always wants to try, and maybe always will, even when my words and thoughts fall onto deaf ears. Those like the sheep, and the horse live outside and are a part of the world of light, but I might say the cave they live in is their own skulls.

I’ve heard of a time when, the Stream would have been called a “bar,” and bars could have been owned by anyone. There were many, and they had many different names. Now all we’ve got is “the stream.”

What are now “lakes,” we once called swimming pools. I don’t like pools much, but I would give anything to see a lake. Real roaring rapids, snow-peaked mountains, and subterranean crystal caverns—now, these are just names for what were once called “restrooms,” “air conditioner stores,” and “mirror shops.” We name things for those we no longer have.

Back then we—my self, the swan, the horse, and the sheep—would have been called people. Yeah. That was when we still had wild animals. People’s differences were supposed to be equal back then. Or so I hear. Now, we deconstruct the human personality and attribute a kind of creature to every kind of individual.

I’ve seen the real things though! Horses, swans, lakes, and streams—I’ve seen what I can hardly dream of because I’ve listened to what others have said. It’s all been recreated in the space between my ears a million different times, and each from a new angle. In the end, I have come to see the world that was, that is, and that will be in the only way that I can. This is a way, I believe, that can never been seen the same way by another individual ever again.

I withdrew to my loft…I mean my cave above the stream for the day. As far as I can see neither the sheep, nor the horse, bothered me again.