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On Seeking...On Searching

This week's blog post will showcase contributions from The Turning Point Community. This short narrative captures a survivor's journey through healing and reflection. Our goal is to share stories that inspire growth, resilience, and reflective thinking on our platform. We hope this piece inspires how you reflect on your own journey and offers new insights and means for pondering your experiences. 

 



Fool chasing the geese

Pity The Fool Who Chased The Goose

     

The fool who chased the goose, the wild one. All the villagers would say: Look at that fool! The fool, scrappily chasing a wild thing not to be caught, who did not care. You see, the fool knew the wild goose. And if it was doomed from the start, the fool would live to see the day or die trying.

 

The fool, the village dunce, only ever known for stellar stupidity and acts of pure insanity, did embark on a wild goose chase indeed. Past landsend and beyond where the sun and the ocean converged to locations unknown, for the goose was not wild in the fool's eyes. The fool's eyes could be fooled themselves, but still the fool knew-the goose was there for the taking.

 

Fools need only make chase.

 

After all, why else would it be, as well as wild, a golden goose? The fool did not understand the villagers, for they spoke different languages; the fool could not commune, and best for all not to try. The fool was aware the goose was not to be tamed or even caught-nay,

 

the goose existed to be chased.

 

Past known limits and unknown upper limits, beyond reason and further than logically justifiable, incidentally encountering the greatest of the heavens and the darkest of the voids with nary an intention of locale, the goose would always be wild...

 

...and golden besides.

 

The fool, who would not stop, he understood his weariness, the one in his bones and the one in his heart; he recognized his own plight, a despair made incendiary by hope, his soul alight, engulfed in the embers of the world; and was only capable of one statement during his pursuit of the goose-

 

The fool who would not stop? Nay, the fool

cannot stop.

 

For the fool knew the goose, and he knew the goose well. The chasing fool and the wild goose were close friends, old acquaintances actually, and where the villagers saw wildness, the fool intuited necessity. The goose, wild or golden and both in fact, was all too happy to be chased

and could not care less if anyone actually did.

 

Pity the fool and his wild goose chase, the villagers would share, as the fool resided in the mud on the lane, neither roof nor spouse for the fool, lacking the luxuries of respect and careered-ness,

 

and so blind to his own poverty!

 

And yet-the fool did not stop the wild goose chase. He would not, nay-

 

he cannot.

 

For where the villagers understood only the waste and devastation of lost time and the potential for potential, the fool knew-

 

to the very core of himself

 

the goose was not to be caught. The wild goose was meant to lead them on quite a merry chase, bearing resemblance to the merry-go-round and children shrieking as they played duck-duck-goose,

 

the dream of being so convincing the villagers only knew what they were.

 

The fool saw chance, the hope for inconceivable realms, a need for the unattainable-he understood hope and despair were shaking hands, death and life retiring to the study for an imbibement, dark and light greeting each other as warm friends-he saw the impossible realities of his world, the unimaginable simplicity

 

of chasing, of striving and dying, of taxing and straining and breaking and remaking, of formness and formless, of knowing and of doing, of being and of enacting, of thought, of emotion, of reason and intuition-

 

of wanting and wanting anyway,

 

knowing he cannot stop chasing the goose, and he cannot capture the goose.

 

Pity the fool who chased the goose, the villagers utterances, tutting and tsking and heads shaking in sympathy for the fool they did not understand; the fool they could understand, for their languages were without translation.

 

And yet...the fool, imbued with dirt and made of the soul, who did not, and then would not, who really could not stop chasing the goose

 

reveled in the hedonist's way in the pain and the glory; relished the challenge, even as his body wearied and needed rest, he gave so much time as he could before his being demanded the chase again, his being made marvelous by knowing as he did and everything he knew he did not know; his existence ratified not by answers

 

but by questions;

 

himself enough for himself, worthy of what he knew and more than to brave the unknown, the wilds of self and soul, the intangible horrors intrinsic to being, the immaterial pregnancy of a moment so vastly littered with import, with vitality, with relevance and meaning the fool choked on thin air.

 

Pity the fool who chased the goose, the one who was not to be caught, the villagers could only wonder.

 

The fool and his goose, who no much more belonged to each other than they shall not be excommunicated from each other, and the chase of ages...

was naught but a sorry-sad-tut-tut story to each villager...

and the fool?

 

Well, the fool might have been seen as chasing the goose...when fair play is fair play, and they do so love to play. 

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