With great mental effort, the bundle of crisp new currency had willed itself to fall away from the rest of the money meticulously piled and stacked. It hoped to be noticed. "Touch me," it thought, blending in with the whispers of the remaining bundles, forming a collective chorus that must have been worth several million dollars. The amorous, dreaming glances of the onlookers prodded the paper-money-passions to be handled, fondled, folded, turned, and finally passed to someone else who would repeat the whole procedure. They wanted it and knew how to get it, as well. That was in their nature. They merely had to lie there passively, out in the open, with minimal covering. Before long some hand would always grope at them. But it was all a sham, and the bills didn't even know. For they were counterfeit banknotes on a table in a museum in a glassed-off area with a strict "do not touch" policy. They would remain untouched until picked up one day and dumped into the recycling press.
Story #74
2 comments:
Real money has the same fate -- being idolized, then after a time being destroyed -- but with a bit more handling involved.
Nice metaphor for life. And we as humans crave to be noticed, touched, folded, carried about, and then be passed to someone else to be revalued... live currency, we're always looking for worth. And then we too meet the incinerator when we're worn and wrinkled.
I don't often have a conscious intention when I write these things, an unconscious one perhaps? In some ways the analogy fits. The statement: "They merely had to lie there passively, out in the open, with minimal covering." may not always be true. Secrets and the mysterious, that which is not known attracts in life, maybe more than that which is uncovered.
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