On Being in an Empty Field
A man sits in an empty field. Becoming restless, he stands. Time passes, and he becomes bored. He begins to run in circles. In time, this becomes monotonous. He builds steps to climb. This soon becomes uninteresting. He builds a ladder to climb. When this loses his interest, he invents different climbing techniques: sometimes he must use only one foot, sometimes he must keep his eyes closed. Eventually, he loses his grip and falls back to the disinterested earth. He lies, stunned, for a good while. He notices, for the first time, with his fingers and heels and spine, the infinite nuances of the soil. He props himself up, to sit. He believes the field holds him differently, and he it, and he is not bored.
Long after the man has accepted death and returned to the soil, someone else wanders into the field, and begins to climb his stairs, believing they have purpose.