MR TORTOISE GETS DEPRESSED - PART ONE.

Mr. Tortoise has not moved in three days.This is not unusual, of course. The other animals are accustomed to his stillness. They have always called him patient, stoic, wise. They have always said: Look at him. So peaceful. So untroubled. So at home inside himself.They do not understand that home has become a haunted house. The squirrel chatters at him from the branch above.Come on, old man! The sun is warm! The seeds are plentiful! I found an entire patch of berries by the east wall—sweet as anything! Why are you just sitting there?Mr. Tortoise does not answer. He cannot explain that the sun feels like a weight, not a warmth. That the berries might as well be stones. That the effort of lifting his head to acknowledge her kindness would require a currency he no longer possesses.The squirrel twitches her tail, puzzled, and then forgets him entirely. A falling leaf has distracted her. She is gone in a flash of fur and motion.Must be nice, Mr. Tortoise thinks. To forget so easily. The hare bounds past at noon, pauses, circles him twice.Still here? Still there? You know, if you're going to be stationary, at least pick a spot with a view. This patch of dirt is terribly ordinary. No offense.Mr. Tortoise blinks. The blink takes three seconds. It feels like three hours.I don't care about the view, he wants to say. I don't care about the dirt. I don't care about ordinary. I don't care about anything, and that is precisely the problem. Caring has left my body like a tenant who forgot to pay rent.But the hare is already gone, chasing his own shadow, leaving a dust cloud of urgency behind him.Must be nice, Mr. Tortoise thinks. To move so fast you outrun your own thoughts. The bird lands on his shell at dusk.She sings. It is beautiful. It is always beautiful. The bird does not know how to be anything other than beautiful. She sings of the sky and the wind and the worm she caught and the nest she is building and the eggs she will lay and the future she carries in her chest like a song waiting to happen.Mr. Tortoise feels her tiny feet on his back. He feels the vibration of her music traveling through his shell, into his spine, into the place where his feelings used to live.Nothing happens.The song ends. The bird cocks her head.You are very quiet today, Mr. Tortoise.I am very quiet every day, he thinks. You just never noticed because my quiet was useful to you. A convenient perch. A steady rock. You never asked what the rock felt.Goodbye! she trills, and lifts into the air, and is gone.Must be nice, Mr. Tortoise thinks. To leave so easily. Part two coming soon. Stay tuned.

Other insights from Nonso Obi

Referral Earning

Points-to-Coupons