Every time I pulled the lever, the rough and jagged surface of the lever dug into my hand and gouged at the flesh. I kept pulling it anyway.
An observer asked me why I continued pulling at something that was hurting me. I answered that it was because I often got something good as an outcome.
“But you’re bleeding.”
“It’s yummy!”
“Some of these wounds look infected.”
“That will pass.”
But the amount of good things that came from pulling the lever decreased in quality over time. Other good things I became tolerant to, and they just weren’t as good as they used to be. The lever originally had a covering over the bare metal, but over time I wore the covering away.
Still, I pulled.
“You know, if that is hurting you, you should stop.”
“But then how will I get good things?”
“Use a different lever.”
“But they all wind up like this over time. The more I use it, the more I am exposed to the true nature of the system.”
“But. It. Is. Hurting. You.”
I paused. “But it’s all I know.”
“Then learn new things.”
I let go of the lever. “I’ve done that. I’ve found new levers. All neat and pristine and safe and smooth. Some lose their covering in hours. Some take days or even months. But they all show the barbs eventually. Some of them I have stuck it out until even the barbs have been worn down. Some have nearly crippled me. But, how long do I have to keep trying new levers? How many new levers do I have to pull? They all have barbs. I can’t not pull levers anymore. If I don’t dare, I don’t get anything.”
The observer took my hand and held it palm up. The skin was calloused, scarred, and covered with wounds. “If you do not give yourself time to heal, you won’t heal.”
“If I only pull the levers worn into safe textures, I’ll never get anything worth pulling for. I’ll be isolating myself at a time when such isolation is not good for me.”
“If you do not give yourself time to heal, you’ll never heal. You are not the levers. The levers don’t pull you. Yes, you have to pull one to remain in contact, but on your schedule, not theirs.”
I looked at my bruised hand, at the lever I was pulling, at the other levers in arm’s reach. I realized I was dreaming. “This is a shitty analogy.”
“It worked. You’re thinking.”
I wiped my hands together. The wounds flaked off like dried makeup and rolled off my hands. “You have my attention. Get to the point.”
“I’m not going to tell you to become a hermit. You can’t. Not right now. I’m not going to tell you to strictly police who you come in contact with. That way lies madness because no one is 100% safe, not even [them]. I’m going to remind you of one key truth, that you keep forgetting because you think you exist on the periphery.”
“My misanthropy is justified?”
“Heh. Yes and no. But that’s not it. When you wake up, if you forget all this, I want you to remember this one thing: Outrage is infectious and self-seeding.”
I woke up.
…
Infectious and self-seeding? Like a spiritual abiogenetic anthrax or some shit? Spontaneous life? And I thought the level analogy broke down fast.
~loads social sites for morning amusement, complete forgetting the dream~
Sees a certain post. Oh! The OUTRAGE!
Wait.
This isn’t my problem. That isn’t my account. A person has the right to say what the fuck ever they please. If I don’t like it, I can always unfollow. ~reminded of levers~ But, everyone says something sometime… ~reminded of the entire dream~
…
~closes browser~