To see the silver lining is a tough thing; more so for a cynic. But what the cynic and the counterpart might miss there, is platinum with all its silvery lustre. After all, silver isn't worth the effort as much as gold is, one might say, as platinum smiles around.
One does wonder how the human thought at large differs from the individual's. Extending to how they lie orthogonal, the mind that wishes to get along lies.
Aren't we circumspect about taking the libation of logic and less of the exotic dishes of emotion? Are we not looking more and more through the currency of clout, an invariant insipidity that it is?
Zarathustra opines the masses value the vessel, more than the libation offered thereof. He stays high up the mountain; the serpent and the eagle still better for the company he says. The odd human trying to scale his peaks, Zarathustra smiles at; this one not of sarcasm but a happy soul's he insists.
"I don't have very many humans coming here", he sighs, his drink and his stick in well-placed corners nearby. Little does he figure, the anachronism that he is, Wanderlust is fast catching up.
Humans would soon attempt to climb his peaks, tagging pictures on Facebook as it reeks. They can't scale a bit, Zarathustra is confident, but the foothills, he doesn't know he is sure to lose to landfills. The serpent is mighty perplexed, the eagle he's almost given up.
"It is the same message", Zarathustra wonders, remembering the days gone by and his words in the village. Bemused as he has never been, he wonders why the new ones get heard, even as his lunatic title sticking around.
A hiss and a sigh then later, the serpent figures it out, wise one of the three it always has been. "Tell me dear Zarathustra", the snake prods in, "what makes you share the honey there you've gathered".
He saw in him always the bee; tireless in work and letting humans take, without his a smirk. Confused still, the wise man retires to his desk.
The wise serpent well aware, he continues without the need for a word. "They aren't bees or serpents, I see only eagles in there", as he sees a disturbed eagle look deep into his eyes. "Unlike my friend here, Zarathustra, they have only feigned a shade of his character", the wise one goes on.
Libations left for better choices, Zarathustra's prophecies of Ludwig arise fresh in thought. "I will not come down from the mountains", Zarathustra thunders, "to the human kind that values it not". The bee smirks at it, all aware of the inner spirit.
He can't keep the honey to himself; he can't worry about the troubles on his self. He will come down crying yet another day; will run up the mountains his hair not yet grey. As the human kind makes a mockery of his, he will continue like a bee, doing nothing but this. Between the eagle and the serpent, Zarathustra runs; like the bee as it runs from flower to its fruit. The old one will go on thus, with his message until the world takes without much fuss.
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