The subject of my own story

I had an unwanted intrusion on my travels. A week of work. A full, unadulterated week. It's funny how much of an intrusion this can feel like, having sets one's course on a year of frivolous meandering from one beach, one bar, to the next. A shock to the system, literally. All holiday functions abruptly ceased. I found myself having to carefully pick out suitable working clothes where before clothes were merely a means of covering my jangly bits. Jangly bits at Indonesia's Ministry of Finance. Hmmmm, a thought . Anyhow, I got myself into this mess. Take a bit of work. Might as well. A bit of variety. Earn a bit of money. Get a step ahead of your budget. It'll help you down the line. Sure. But the problem is in removing one's posterior from a month-long stay on a fan-fucking-tastic beach in Thailand to, within three days, fronting up to a bunch of Ministry of Finance lackeys, doing my best to explain away my tan. "You are so black Mr Nick"..."Yes, well that's because I've been doing nothing on a Thai isle for the last month. You should try it some time." "But Mr Nick, we only get 12 days holiday a year. And four of those are mandatory during the Muslim festival of Lebaran." Oh shit, the poor fuckers.

So I'm a bum. A beefy beach vagabond. My holiday is not just a source of bemusement to the folk at the Ministry of Finance. Even my fellow western friends in Jakarta find it odd, though I think some are a tad envious. "Blowing your inheritance money are ya?" sneered one in an Australian drawl. I replied that he should mind his own finances and not worry about mine too much. 'The Vacationist', I am called by another. "Most people work continuously, interspersed with a few vacations. You do the opposite. You vacation continuously interspersed with a little work." Can't say he's wrong - nor would I want to. Not right now at least.

But then just as I'm about to get carried away. As I'm about to dispense with my anxieties and forge on, carefree and directionless, I am reminded of a story. It's as if my conscience demands that I be brought down to earth, and so it slurps up the allegorical fable of the Egg and vomits it out into my consciousness. As if the travails undergone by the story's subject must supersede any notion I have of being a mere Vacationist.

Clay to Dust. Tears to Salt. Dreams to Regrets.


The Egg came from a world of absolute darkness. The world consisted of the Shadows and their subjects. The Shadows ruled with absolute indifference towards their subjects. The subjects groveled and bled from the fresh wounds they suffered daily. The Egg offered some solace. The Egg offered reassurance that light existed. This was the promise of the Egg. That if the subject could survive. Even for a short while. Light would reveal itself. But the subject needed to hear this. From the Egg. Directly.


To meet the Egg was an arduous task in itself. Many subjects were dismissed as unworthy. Pretenders. Sometimes wrongly so. The Egg was no oracle. But no other hope remained. So the subject journeyed to the Egg. Ignoring all obstacles. And risk of rejection.


The subject was told the way to find the Egg was through isolation. Not complete isolation. Partial isolation. And long reflection. Even this though was no guarantee. The subject understood the risk. Understood the potential futility. But the subject had no other choice. The myth of the Egg's power was strong and alluring.


So the subject traveled through the dark land. It was important to avoid the Shadows. If the subject were trapped by the Shadows the darkness imposed by them could be final. In moments of isolation the Shadows massed menacingly. Yet isolation was required. This was a strict rule of the Egg. Without it the subject would be dismissed. Before reaching anywhere near the Egg.


Isolation was not total. It was partial. The Egg allowed for this. At times the subject was freed from isolation. Then the Shadows lost their potency. It was almost as light. But it was not light. Not yet. This pseudo light was also dangerous. The subject felt tempted to remain exposed to it for too long. Then any chance the subject had of meeting the Egg would dissipate.


The Egg also called for reflection. This was the hardest part. Because reflection needed light. There was of course no such thing yet. So to reflect the subject needed to dream of light. And in this dream. Also to embrace the Shadows. This was not natural to the subject. The Shadows were inherently repulsive. The instinct of the subject was to hide from them.


Still the rules of the Egg were clear. And the promise of the Egg clearer still. Light was a precious commodity. More precious than any other commodity any world had ever known. More precious than gold. Than oil. Than water. Without it the Shadows were all pervasive. And then there was little reason to exist at all.


The journey to the Egg was harder than imagined. There were many pitfalls. The Shadows employed foot soldiers. Shards of Shade. Sharp enough to cut. Sharp enough to slice and stab. The foot soldiers of Shade could be defeated. But it was easier for the subject to avoid than defeat them.


Stairs, ropes and ladders were found all along the route. The subject could use these if desired. The foot soldiers were not able to reach them. So the subject chose to use these aids. The foot soldiers were rendered powerless. But what lay beyond the foot soldiers, the shards of Shade, was far more formidable. Nothing that stairs, or ropes, or ladders could help to overcome.


The subject met other travelers, other subjects, on the journey. Each sought the Egg. But each took a different route. At points their routes overlapped. The subject felt a keen lack of uniqueness. Many subjects knew of the Egg. And needed to find the Egg. Because each lay ruined by the Shadows.


The subject finally arrived at the nest of the Egg. And had to answer the preliminary questions. Why have you come? What do you seek? Why do you deserve what I, the Egg, can promise? The subject was unprepared for these questions. Unprepared for the long voyage altogether.


I have come to escape the darkness, to look for light, because I am worthy. I am a decent and proper subject. For the most part. The Egg had heard these answers too many times before. They were typical answers. From typical subjects. They did nothing to warrant the Egg dispensing the formidable power the myth described. To provide an assurance.


But I have isolated myself. Partially. And I have reflected. But these words the subject spoke alone. The Egg's back was turned. To return to the nest. To await a worthier subject. The Egg had no time for this subject.


In the distance the subject saw a sight more ghastly than any on the voyage itself. The subject saw the Egg commune with the Shadows. Then the subject realized. The Egg and the Shadows were in league. The Egg was merely a facade. A front. That promised light only if the Shadows deemed it fit.


And so the subject began to think of another course. Another way. To find the light. That surely existed somewhere.

And now, I am at a crossroads. Am I just a subject in my own story, doomed to struggle in search of a light that perhaps doesn't exist, or am I the happy-go-lucky Vacationist, insouciant but in control of my fate? Or is it, as I suspect, a grotesque but beguiling mixture of both?