Parable of the Hermit Cave

On the navel of an immortal Sea, there lived a Cave; and in that Cave lived a mortal Hermit. The Sea and the Cave were two roots from one tribe, accomplices amid ebb and tide; for the two were also one.

And the Sea was rash. And the Sea was loud; for it was no ordinary Sea – it was a Sea of reasons. And the Cave was no ordinary Cave too – it was a Cave of consciousness. Watery slivers came and smote its crust. Some of them remained and some never returned, streaks, immortal, fickle and free.

The Hermit was one. It was a different one. It was a part of two but not as one with two – not as immortal, not as fickle, not as free; although, it thought that it was as the Sea and lived life in the shadows of itself alone.
 

The Cave was not as static as the Hermit. It spun on regenerative waves and expressed form in numerous ways; for as the Sun leapt from east to west, so did the Sea. Yet, the Hermit was without form, without motion and without company of either.

 
On  several evenings, the sauntering Sun brought news of other caves she had seen around the belly of the world; caves whose forms were bolder, braver and shared no tribe with an unstable breed as the Sea but led them. Yet, the Hermit was without form, without motion and without company of either.

One day, Light from a distant shore broke upon the Cave. This Light was brisk, brusque and bright. It was a distinguished wisp among the void's routine. It was also naked and harsh, convening the Sea, rousing the Sun.

Still, the Hermit was without form, without motion and without company of either. It was only in the company of a familiar shadow and roar; for, in its stasis, there was only one form -– the form of its crumbling shadow which it could not see; there was only one roar -– the roar of lower waters it had only heard.

Yet, there were higher waters – waters, whose roar, the Hermit could not also hear. The Light held them in its thunderous palms and threw them down and upon the Sea. In all the turbulence of rebirth, the Sea became violent and new, and so did its kin, the Cave.

A new form the Cave did take. And it was a mangled form, a form of nothingness; for the great storm had trampled upon it and upon the oblivious shadow inside.   

Alas, the Hermit was without the Cave or any other. And it was without consciousness. And it was without a shadow. It swam in many reasons to drown. It did not even know that it did.

Photo Credit: Femi Akeusola, Pelumi Kayode & Sanya Olamide.