effects of the drug

Read Some Stories

Unhappiness and Happiness

The Blind

The Truth

The Seeder

Lazarus

 

Unhappiness and Happiness

Open your ears and listen to this, oh happy and sad hearts alike. Whatever happens to one person is likely to happen to another, as well, so that both Happiness and Unhappiness are temporary guests under each of our roofs.

One year Unhappiness visited my house and lived there for a while. I hosted it gracefully, like any civil person would do. Unhappiness was surrounded with love and care. It never felt lonesome or abandoned. My friends, relatives and neighbors came to visit Unhappiness day and night. They all knew Unhappiness. From dawn to dusk we would talk about life and the way the world was. Exactly a year later, Unhappiness packed its luggage of sadness and tears and left. (In fact, it was happy to leave).

Then Happiness came to visit me. It lived in my house for a while, too. However, Happiness was very lonely, because no one came to visit: neither my friends, nor my relatives, nor my neighbors. During those happy days, no one ever knocked at my door. I realized that, unfortunately, not very many people were familiar with Happiness. It seems Unhappiness has lots of friends, while Happiness is its own friend and companion.

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The Blind

In the darkness of the night, a blind person was confidently leading another blind person. The latter was gladly and obediently following his leader. When they caught up with me, I asked them their names. The first blind one’s name was Arrogance and the follower’s name was Humility.

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The Truth

I was lost in a maze of good and the evil, in search of truth. I encountered the old Snake who was once friends with Adam.

“I would like to rediscover Paradise,” I said innocently.

“Oh, what ignorance-sssss,” hissed the snake. ”Enjoy a piece of fruit from that tree.”

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The Seeder

One day, as I was walking on the banks of the river Jordan, not far from the dusty roads heading toward Bethany, I encountered an old and tired-looking man whose back appeared bent from work. I was not sure if he noticed me. He stopped, wiped the streaks of sweat from his wrinkled face, and continued his work. Golden seeds of wheat were scattered to the right and left.

The arid desert was all around me, and in that desert the wheat field opened up in front of me as an oasis. The sunset’s red haze was gradually enveloping the field and slowly creeping up the mountain.

“The old man seems unusual,” I thought to myself. “Surely, he’s like an historical character right out of the pages of the Bible.”

I quickly skimmed through the Bible that I happened to have with me, and all of a sudden I shouted out, “The Seeder!”

The old man gave me a sad look and took a few small steps towards me. “Yes,” he said. “I am the Seeder, a cultivator. Many centuries ago the Lord assigned me to work here to fill the empty, arid land with life. So I have been sowing for a long, long time in the heart of the field so that it gets fertile and will yield hundreds in one place, sixty in another, and thirty in a third place. It happened just the way the Lord wanted. The wheat fields germinated under the nourishing rays of the sun. Life and laughter settled in these places. The harvest was abundant and healthy. Once in a while, a seed would get stuck on a rock. It would get lost in the thorns or on the roads, and the birds would eat it. But the harvest was plentiful, enough for both people and animals.

“But since then, many winters have gone by and many droughts have dried out the seeds. Wars turned the peoples’ houses into ashes, earthquakes destroyed many prospering villages and towns, and hunger and sickness consumed people everywhere. The citizens and the villagers became refugees. They migrated to foreign countries to seek food and rest. Only memories were left here. You don’t see smoke coming out of the chimneys any more, and you no longer see children skipping in the neat rows of the wheat fields at sunrise. The fields are idle now, and the seeds I spread don’t even make it into the ground because the birds steal them. The young sprouts of those seeds that do make it to the ground are overcome and killed by thorns or weeds.”

The old man sadly sighed a breath of air as he leaned on an old, dry log that was sticking up in front of me. It had turned very dark in color from sitting in the sun for a long time, and its branches stretched toward the sky like the fingers of a skeleton.

“They are so alike, the old man and the old log,” I grinned in my mind. Then I put my arm around the cultivator’s tired and hardworking shoulders and whispered quietly, but in a convincing tone, “Then why are you wasting your life in the sun on such a senseless and boring job. The world is different these days, cultivator. The old days are gone, but you still live in the past. Follow your people away from the deserted land. It’s impossible to grow wheat fields in the desert.”

All of a sudden the old man’s tanned face became gloomy. Frowning his thick eyebrows, he replied, “My dear friend, trust me, each desert is awaiting its own cultivator, regardless of whether it will be turned into a field, a fruit garden or a flower garden. I may seem to you like a crazy dreamer, but as hard as it is, the job I do is not senseless at all. Cultivating seeds is my job. It’s an old profession, indeed. The times have changed and so has the world. People have changed, too, but my duty has remained the same. I have to sow seeds. That is the destiny chosen for me. You will never be bored if you have found your calling in this world.

“My life is rich and prosperous. Yet it’s not the number of experiences, events or emotions in the world that makes life rich, but rather the magnitude of their power. It’s the power of how a person lives that makes life so rich, so meaningful, and so colorful. I am called to sow seeds. It’s one of the most worthy professions of all because my job is to give the mortal another chance to live. Where there is birth, a future is established, not a past. Moreover, there is always the eternal present, a union of past and future.

“Look at the bright wheat, below its delicate tissue a new life is merging already. Do you see it?” The old man brought a handful of wheat closer to my ear and whispered, “Listen to how the Universe is breathing inside the seed. A wheat field is like the whole Universe resting on the breast of mother earth.”

But I didn’t see or hear anything from what the seeder was telling me. Perhaps I am more materialistic, a true child of this progressive world. Unfortunately, I don’t even remember the last time I raised my eyes to look at the stars. So how could I possibly notice what was happening to the seeds?

Embarrassed from that idea, I turned my face toward the field. I probably blushed, too. Otherwise, why was the old man staring at me? The Seeder’s words were burning my heart now, just like God’s Ten Commandments. “It’s worth staying here,” I thought to myself. “I’ll just seed with the old man so that the desert will thrive and turn into a field, the rock into a garden.”

But instead, the conscience of a progressive person suddenly returned to me. I hesitated for a minute. Then I decided that I had to go back to town and complete my advanced studies in Theology and Philosophy.

“Do I need to?” I asked myself, silently.

The sun had by this time turned toward the mountain and the clouds made a curtain on the horizon. “Take care of yourself, Seeder,” I told him, a little tone of regret creeping into my voice.

A sweet smile contoured on the Seeder’s lips. “Good bye.”

It’s so wonderful that the Seeder lives in a tiny corner of the world, even if it’s a lost corner. The man who believes in seeds planted in the desert.

You might say he was a “crazy dreamer,” but that’s not so. To me he was a wise man, a lot different from all the old men I have ever seen. I am sure the world would become a paradise if people would live like him, like seeders, true to their calling, if they only knew how to grow wheat in the desert.

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Lazarus

Sometimes silence says more than words. This was Lazarus’ conviction for any matter.

“Lazarus, you’ve been constantly quiet ever since you were resurrected. You saw heaven and you sang along with the angels. You knocked at the doors of the Kingdom. You don’t have anything to tell us?”

I asked him this as he was kneeling down on the ground, enjoying the desert sunset.

The dusty and tattered clothes covering his masculine body made me think that he’d been wandering in the desert sand, perhaps surrounded by wild animals, birds and poisonous reptiles.

Lazarus continued watching the sunset, calmly and serenely, as if he didn’t hear anything.

“You are still quiet!” I almost screamed with anger.

Finally, he responded with a question: “What kind of speech would you give to an audience of deaf mutes?” And without waiting for an answer, he walked away, swishing with his bare feet, toward the hills where the sun had just set.

I was quiet…
 
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