The Firefly's story in the Camp

"Will I still remember you, when I wake up?" the tired young man asked. "We've come so far and yet I seemed to have forgotten your name as well mine. Why are we going there again? Where are were we going?"

The mountain they were climbing was steep and rocky. The young man's feet were hurting. The sun ever daring looked down on the weary travelers. The firefly smiled on the young man.

"I'll remind you once we get there," the firefly said.

The sun was setting once they reached the summit. Fresh wind blew from the east. It was time for dinner. The young man set camp as the firefly continued on to float beside him.

"Would you mind telling me a story while we set camp?" the young man asked. "The atmosphere might be serene and all but a bit too much quiet is different. Beside, stories makes one have dreams. We're staying here for the night, right?"

"Very well," the firefly said. "But I doubt I'd remember to remind you about this story once you wake up. Forgive me if I can't make you remember this silly story I'm about to tell."

The young man smiled as we fetched for woods for fire.

There once was a young man who yearned for poetry. But all he couldn't rhyme his words. He hates writing more words. He hates words.

"But why poetry if he hates words?" the young man interrupted.

It was all that he's good at. He's not a smart child. He's not that strong too. And so the only thing he could lift for long were a pen. He like drawing as well but he's not good at it. And so he settled for writing. At first he wrote letters and paragraphs but all of it were far too complicated and lengthy. But he kept on since that's what he's only good at and nothing more.

One day, he read of poetry. Verses and lines that hides meaning into each words. Some are more vivid and pronounced. While most are lyrical and rhyming. But all of them tells of dreams. And so for poetry he yearned.

But he wasn't really good at it. Whenever he try his best, he couldn't write anything. His diction as well his words weren't as formed. He had little knowledge of words.

"Still he yearned for poetry?" the young man was done with the woods and now he was looking for water.

It was all that he was good at. He wasn't good at rhyming as well meters, syllables and whatever rules in poetry there is. But still he yearned for poetry.

He wrote and wrote until one day he realized:

"Maybe poetry isn't for me."

And so he stopped writing and started doing something else.

"So he quit?" the young man asked.

Without knowledge of anything else he went and did the routine and trivialities of others. It was basic necessity after all. And so he learned here and there, but to sum it all, things just far too few. He wasn't happy at first but as time went by he grew used to it. Soon after his yearning for poetry have suddenly vanished.

He had let go of his pen. He accepted that he will write no more.

"So he actually quit?" the young man was now setting up the tent. The soup he had just cooked was about ready.

The firefly became quiet as the young man continued with his evening activities. By then young man forgot about the story as well the firefly that was with him. He ate his dinner and soon after put out the fire to go to sleep. The sky was cloudless that night and so the stars were watching over him so do the firefly. But the young man paid no heed.

The young man forgot. As for the firefly, he just stayed silent.