The middle monkey
Once upon a time there were three little monkeys. Baby monkeys. Let's call them first monkey, middle monkey and last monkey. And these baby monkeys were separated at birth.
First monkey stayed with his mother. Fell asleep with the milky nipple in his mouth, her arms around him. Woke to the feel of fingers busy in his fur, parting and searching, patting and stroking. Rocked to the rhythm of her lope, tight against her belly, hands twined in her pelt. Heard her heart beat.
Last monkey was given a wire model of a monkey with a realistically-positioned bottle of milk. Last monkey quickly went mad.
But middle monkey, middle monkey muddled on. Middle monkey had a wire mother and bottle too, but his wire had a fur covering. And middle monkey clung on to the fur fabric and its wire frame. Clung on tight. Just enough there to stop middle monkey from madness, but only just.
Middle monkey is not a brave little monkey. Middle monkey is a desperate half-crazed creature longing to hear a heartbeat in the silence of the wire.
First monkey stayed with his mother. Fell asleep with the milky nipple in his mouth, her arms around him. Woke to the feel of fingers busy in his fur, parting and searching, patting and stroking. Rocked to the rhythm of her lope, tight against her belly, hands twined in her pelt. Heard her heart beat.
Last monkey was given a wire model of a monkey with a realistically-positioned bottle of milk. Last monkey quickly went mad.
But middle monkey, middle monkey muddled on. Middle monkey had a wire mother and bottle too, but his wire had a fur covering. And middle monkey clung on to the fur fabric and its wire frame. Clung on tight. Just enough there to stop middle monkey from madness, but only just.
Middle monkey is not a brave little monkey. Middle monkey is a desperate half-crazed creature longing to hear a heartbeat in the silence of the wire.
posted by tournesol at 11:37 pm
1 Comments:
I wonder, when I am reminded to do so, how many of us in the world feel this way, or have felt this way, and have never let on.
It is tremendously painful, the longing for connection and the deep certainty that the connection does not or cannot exist. I say that it can, and it does -- but if we cannot feel it deep in our bones, it might as well be imaginary. What can one do besides hold on to the wire frame, and try to believe that there is more than this?
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