Childhood is a sea of clay
It begins serenely; still, but very much alive
The clay sits and lives its own life, bothering no one, living in blissful ignorance
Until the sculptors discover it
However, these are not normal sculptors
Most sculptors are artists who carry chisels
These sculptors are overlords armed with whips
They look at the clay and frown saying "why is this clay lying here like mud?"
And so they decide to make the clay into statues
They crack their whips at the clay for twelve long years
They whip with numbers and criterion
They whip to crack through the mind and bleed the clay of its will
With each flogging the clay statues bare a closer resemblance to their makers
But not every child is made of clay
There is the jagged rock; ugly, hated, and unflinching
The jagged rock does not fear the whip
He scowls at and mocks the sculptors, so that every sculptor comes to whip the rock
The rock is beaten with the whips of criterion and public disapproval
But the whips fray and snap on the rock; and the sculptors lose their whips
With no weapons to subdue it, the clay falls out of its shape and melts into an ocean
The sculptors fight to preserve their creations but they are only drowned in the fury of the ocean
After the sculptors have been smashed and their works diminished, the sea of clay resumes
And all is serene again
The clay celebrates its utopia and enjoys the beauty and peace of their new world
But what of the rock?
The rock is a special sort, it does not know serenity
The whips did not destroy the rock but they did provoke rebellion
And so the rock was affected
He saw the effect that the whips had on his piers
In anticipation, he sold his love of life for strength to fight his oppressors
And so in the new world order, the rock had no more enemies, no more cause for rebellion
He had won his war
And he was content to die
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