Beware the fate of the Rat that lives on the street of the Sun...
This was written with pettiness. I had fun being petty. If that is not your vibe, you can give this a skip.
[Please don't judge me too harshly! I was bored, and on a bus, and I cannot help where my brain drew inspiration from 🙏]
From the darkness and chaos of ages long past, emerged a town in which creativity, above all things, was revered. Houses were erected and dedicated to genres, legends, styles, and histories - each little house a lovingly crafted representation of its owner's tastes.
The citizens of this town were not especially kind, nor patient, nor steadfast. They were human - quite like you or me.
It was not a town governed by a particularly righteous or wise ruler (no, certainly not wise), but the rules of community were strictly enforced. Not by violence, mind you, they were enforced by tokens of admiration, friendship, and solidarity.
And the withholding thereof.
Now, in this little town, there was a quaint little street, inhabited by those who dedicated their creativity to the Sun. Some revered its body, for all its frightful glory. Some considered our beloved star lonely, and contrived to find it an equal to dote upon. Yet others dedicated their creations to those who had been scorched by its unforgiving rays.
Disparate though these various approaches were, it was a peaceful little street. Located in a district that contained within itself an enormous diversity of thought. Disagreement was tolerated. Disrespect was not…
In this little street there lived a lady. This lady dedicated her creations to imagining the future. After all, it was known that the great Sun could not burn forever. So what would take its place? What would inherit its reign?
This lady was not the only citizen on the street of the Sun to take up this pursuit, but she was particularly passionate in her approach. Though she may once have had an audience, her incessant screeching had driven all admirers away: “No! No! No! The rays of the Sun cannot shine silver! Only Gold!” She would scream.
“The future of the Sun is GOLD!”
People avoided her house. Their steps sped up when forced to cross her sidewalk, and they stuffed their fingers in their ears when she approached - for none in town had moved there to be so restricted by another. Despite their best efforts, however, the lady would not be so easily ignored. Soon vandalism became a common crime committed on the street of the Sun. Messages of support, sent with love in paper planes had always been encouraged - but now, bricks were tossed through windows carrying messages of vile hatred: “The rays of the Sun CANNOT be silver!” they would read - alongside wishes of death and misery.
All the neighbors knew who the vandal was. Everyone kept ignoring the angry lady, but you see, art of any form is created with love. The people of the town had not moved there to be so restricted by another, and for many it was galling that a place built for them to feel safe in their creations would be so blighted by arrogance. So some neighbors met bricks with bricks. Others would warn newcomers of potential discomfort.
Animosity grew, and the lady got nowhere in her quest for dominance. So she boiled in her own bitterness, and eventually it consumed her. Striped from her the joys of creation, and left only rage.
One night, all the neighbors were awoken to the sound of a roaring fire! They rushed to their porches and saw, at the end of the street, the vandals house was burning. On the grass, in front of the house, stood a lonely figure. Small, and defeated.
"Look at what you did," She wept bitterly, pointing at her neighbours "look at what you made me do! You would not listen to me. You would not do what I told you to. You stole from me my ideas, my precious creativity!
You made me burn down my own house!"
The street was peaceful, following the lady's departure. Not perfect, mind you - some impressionable minds had watched the chaos unfold and sought to emulate her behaviour - but the neighbors moved on. They kept creating.
People soon came to realize, however, that while the lady might be homeless, she still lingered. The random acts of vandalism soon commenced once more.
"Did she turn into a ghost?" An ashen-silver haired girl asked her father.
"No darling. Ghosts are mysterious. And elegant." He bent down to her level, amber eyes gleaming with love for his only child, "This behaviour is more akin to that of a rat. We know it is there, but we cannot be sure where it lives. We merely hear its scratching every now and then."
"Ew, gross!" The little girl giggled, before becoming complative once more. "Pappa, why did she burn down her own house?"
"It was an act of cowardice, my dear. It is a lot easier to be mean and critical about the creations of others if your own are not subject to scrutiny. "
And so the warning was understood, in the little town, built by those who revered creativity - do unto others as you would have them do unto you.
