Our Fish

       A tiny blue fish floats about aimlessly in a glass bowl, its fins drooping downward like blue streaks of water color cast upon a canvas. The bowl only holds about a gallon of water. It is decorated with a handful of cool colored pebbles, a sandcastle figurine, and the ghostly flakes of food floating at the surface of the tank.

       The fish's bowl sits on a golden pillar atop a lush rolling hill. Our friend, the tiny blue mottle, can see the world around, and it stretches for miles. He can see the patches of tiny purple flowers that grow near the clear trickling stream at the foot of the hill. He can see the shiny red bike laying on its side, dotted with dazzling orbs of rain from the morning's drizzle. He can see the girl in the pink skirt and the silky blond pigtails laugh and run away from the dark haired boy in the blue shirt as he chases her with a plump, lime caterpillar clinging to the back of his outstretched arm. He can't hear it, or smell it, or taste it, or feel it, but he can see it. He can see the whole world run on for miles and miles, straight into the soft light of the mango sun, suspended on the horizon like a tight rope walker.

       The fish is not fit to live in the real world. That is why he has one of his own. The sun will dry him up, or the grass will poke his gills, or the dirt will stain his scales, but he has a gallon of water, a ceramic sandcastle, 37 glossy blue pebbles, and three square flakes a day. The people have given him a safe home, and they have showed him the world, as not to deprive his opportunity. The people have provided for the fish, and cared for him, and put him on a pedestal, so that he may be known to the world, and the world may be known to him. The people have done a fine job, and the fish has had a fine life.

       But the people do not know what it is like to be a fish.

       They do not know how unsatisfying it is to swim in circles, merely observing the world around you. They do not know the bore of eating the same brand of dehydrated flakes of salmon and kelp. They do not know the ache of a wandering mind, or the pang of loneliness and containment. They do not know what it is like to see the splendid world rolled out at your feet like a plush, red velvet carpet, and not being able to take a step outside of your artificial world.

       Maybe we should take our fish out for coffee sometime, or whatever.

Pic of Maurice the fish