Walden II

He stood at the edge of the pond, looking at the rippling face of the water. A small zephyr created ridges on the surface, and the sun bounced off them, like thousands of electric tadpoles darting around in a charged frenzy over the water. He squinted in the bright light, and suddenly, the thousands of tadpoles became millions of exploding sparks. Mesmerized by the white fireworks display, he found himself lost in thought. He was alone, but not lonely, for a man thinking, lost in contemplation, lost in memories, is never alone, but always in the company of himself. He was clutching the letter in his hands, unaware that he was crinkling it. Suddenly, a duck swam into the shimmering sparkles, then another, and another, and another, breaking his trance. The brilliant sun was becoming too blinding, anyway, so he took the opportunity to transfix his eyes on the gliding ducks. He watched and pondered their plight.

The pond was small, but the ducks seemed oblivious. They just paddled around and around it, only understanding, only knowing, only seeing what they swam in. Any reality beyond this concrete bowl was never even thought of. They were trained, over time, in their interactions with the mass body of teenagers that frequented the area, to plunge their heads into the water at any splash, thinking it was food being thrown to them. He admired their creamy, suave feathers, their sleek, polished beaks, and their dark penetrating eyes, like little black metal beads. Yet he also felt sorry for their situation, of having their world confined to bleak concrete and artificial food dropping from the sky. He stared, and he empathized. “I know exactly how you feel,” he murmured.

Suddenly, out of the blue, one duck began to beat its feathery, downy wings, flapping desperately, almost for dear life. It seemed to stand erect, straight up on top of the water, rising above the other ducks, rising above the concrete of man. It seemed to be looking, with anguish, with yearning, far into the unknown distance, at the parking lot, at the street beyond. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it settled back into place, smoothing out its ruffled feathers contentedly, and all the ducks went back to their business of swimming around the premises, as if nothing had, or ever will, happen.

Stricken but inspired by something he could not define, he nervously, desperately fumbled with the letter, smoothed it out, flipped it over to its blank side, took out a black pen, and began to write. But his writing was quickly interrupted by strange plopping sounds in the water. He looked up, and to his bewilderment, he saw all the ducks in the water right in front of him, diving head first into the water, only to resurface again, and then plunge in again. When they came up, the water rolling off their oily feathers, they blinked a little in the light. But they kept going at it, urgently. They would almost flip their entire bodies upside down, their behinds up towards the sky for all the world to see, their orange legs pushing and pushing frantically in the air. They looked almost like they were trying to... escape. Perhaps it was frustrating, he thought, maybe even infuriating, to be stuck in this purgatory of sorts. They could neither fly away nor go underwater. They were in a suspended state, half their bodies in air, half in the pond. Knowing they were not born with the faculties to fly, maybe they were trying to escape to the world under water. “I agree,” he whispered. “To be neither here nor there is the most horrible feeling in the world. I’d rather never be, at all.”

So why should he continue trying, as the ducks did ceaselessly everyday? And then he knew. He thought of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s definition of hope: “It eludes us now, but that’s no matter—tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther... And then one fine morning—”