I’m writing a story on my spare time about a fellow called Tom. He’s a pickler out in the country. Here’s what I have so far:
Once upon a time, there was a pickler, called Tom. He was quite a famous pickler, known for the variety and endurance of his produce. He pickled everything; cucumbers, garlic, onions, beets, carrots; heck, even rutabagas! He was a kind man, late 30’s, ruggedly handsome. He lived on the edge of a meadow in the foothills of Mt. Orüvar, a majestic peak that divided a sizable body of water, Lake Élios, from the semi-forested region in which Tom lived.
If anyone observed or even asked Tom how happy he was, he would affirm that he was all kinds of it. But, deep down, Tom was lonelier than a pickle without vinegar. He gazed about the vibrant world around him from his front porch, and felt apart from it. He wanted the opposite of this; to be connected and alive, united with this beautiful meadow and forest… and especially with the majestic mountain which watched over him, Orüvar.
Suddenly Tom knew what to do. He would climb the mountain, hike up its steep trails and upon reaching the top, he would know what to do. It immediately sounded silly to his logical mind, but he knew his problem wasn’t mental… it was his heart that needed healing.
In Awe of Ataraxia 