It’s just the simple act of picking one of the many pieces of paper from a black box, one of which contains the dot that speaks of its drawer’s destiny… Question is, is it an act or a choice—or, if it were possible, destiny itself? But if one would stop and think—and lay aside the ironies of a tragic death through a single tragic mistake—and look into—and, similarly, look through—the eyes of Tessie Hutchinson, her husband Bill, her son Davy, and all the other people in their town, one would stop short to have found out that their minds are a clear mirror of one’s own. Clearly, the story is but a simple twist in the nature of man that man himself has tried to magnify. In the beginning, the characters in the story are we, the bored, uninteresting people walking around and talking and showing up for a yearly event with nary a care in the world. Their eyes have seen people die, as we find out in the end—their eyes have seen their own wives and husbands and children slaughtered through pain, but their hearts only remember, but do not feel. And when the moment of truth comes out—as it always does—the bored people become aggressive, the seemingly unstained—but otherwise—hands take on an evil stance, the wives and husbands and children turn into something less than a stranger, and the pain and slaughter begins. In the beginning, the characters are we.
Also in the end.
It is, perhaps, an unexplainable terror to face head-on the inhabitants of the ordinary—not only is it ordinary as it seems, but also as what it really is—town and see them as our own flesh and blood, our own savage, twisted selves. But it only takes a little listening to the desires of our hearts and the dreams of our souls to unmask the truth that is clearly shown in the story, the truth that also rules our existence today. They are we. We are they. We are one with them—and they are one with us. We walk around and talk and go about our chores and go through the same routine over and over—we, the...
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