I have monkeys on my skin! All over. At first, I couldn't really feel them: they were like so much background – ignorable. Like the wind blowing or the waves crashing, their footfalls were as natural a part of day-to-day experience as all other sensations. In fact, for a long time they were quite nice to have around.
I have a lot to do. I am usually busy with a whole host of matters that do not concern you. You would not, could not, understand even if I was to explain. Even so, it could be argued that I had not taken sufficient attention. That I'd let things go: became preoccupied. I'd been accused of that several times before.
Be that as it may, it was only recently that their activities became noticeable – these wretched monkeys. They always had this double nature, you see. Many of them had been content to gaze, graze and appraise. I quite like that, if you'll forgive the parachesis. After all, it's certainly beautiful out there, something I cherish. Many of them still do it, of course – the good monkeys. But they're not the ones I'm worried about. It's the others that got to me.
It's like this: I could sense something was up – that developments were taking place. After all, these monkeys had themselves been changing. I like novelty. I like change. Fantastic new things happen when there's enough opportunity for change. But the changes in the monkeys, the very duality of them, meant that it was only a short time before their dark monkey activities would be noticed. And so it happened. The first thing to surprise me was their very fecundity. They were as bad as rabbits! They appeared to set out, without any apparent restraint, to reproduce all over –every nook and cranny– spreading to parts of my skin I hadn't thought monkeys could go, let alone thrive. And when they spread, they took a bit of a toll on the others, something the majority appeared unable or unwilling to care about.
The second surprise was their destructive nature. It appears that they are a marvel of reproductive chaos, but also rather adept at slaughtering their own and every other poor thing that comes near them. And for the most illogical of reasons, as far as I'm concerned.
With their continued spreading, these naughty monkeys wanted more; of what was out there, of what had been stored, of what was supposed to go around for everything and everyone. They took and did not give back, even boring down into the skin, blowing it apart, tearing it up, filling it up with their crap. And the more they spread, the more they wanted, as if there was an infinity of it all.
Well, you know me: I have magnificent tolerence, but it's only a matter of time before things come to a head. And it won't be by my doing. There's no one to stop these monkeys doing all they please, but in the end they will cause themselves terrible self-injury. If they don't wake up and realise what's going on with their bad behaviour, decide to change, and then get on with it, then there'll be nothing left. And that means nothing left for them.
Some of them do realise the time for change has come. They do their best, but they can do little against the other monkey's senseless selfishness. Lately I fear it has come to this – that they will only stop their foolish monkeying around when it hurts the most. When their dying monkey children cry out, when their lives are turned upside down, when they can do nothing but change. It would be rather nice if all the monkeys could hear the words of the nice, gentle ones, but alas...
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