Ode to a Slug
Dear Slug,
In some ways you are fortunate. Every day, you go about your life, omnomming the leaves in your path. You know what you are meant to do. We cannot fathom the struggle of your life, but it is a simple one. And one with which you are content — if you know what it is to be content. Those oms are your burden. On days when there are more oms to nom, you rejoice — if you know what it is to rejoice, and count yourself lucky — if you know what it is to be lucky. On days when there are fewer oms, you proceed dutifully all the same; without thought — but with innate understanding that some days bring fewer oms and some days more. The provision of oms is up to the day. All you can do is nom — that is your glory. And you find yourself at peace — if you know what peace is. You are happy — if you know what happiness is.
Of course, you do not know what it is to be content. Nor to rejoice, nor to be lucky, nor unlucky, nor the nature of duty, nor understanding, nor thought, nor glory, nor peace, nor happiness. These words are our words. Their meaning is our burden. Just as we can never fathom your struggle, nor can you fathom ours. They are not your oms to nom. They are our duty. Our oms. Their nomming is our glory. And could we find the peace in our nomming that you have found in yours — could we find simplicity in the struggle of our lives as you have found in yours, perhaps we would find too, your happiness.
Love,
Humanity
