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The Rabbit and the Crow.
3 months ago
General
Journal Entry: "The Rabbit and the Crow"
November 9th — Night again. Too quiet to sleep, too awake to stop thinking. Kekeke.
There was a rabbit once—yes, yes, a rabbit—who lived on a farm. A carrot farm. Rows and rows of green tops and orange roots hiding under the dirt. Every morning before dawn, he’d dig and pull and stack the carrots into neat piles. The farmer told him it was important work. Feed the world, stay useful, no need for anything else. So the rabbit worked, and he worked, and he worked, until the sky changed colors.
But the rabbit had questions. Oh yes. Questions that tickled the whiskers and made his head spin.
He’d watch the birds flying over the fence and wonder: *where are they going?*
He’d stare at the road beyond the fields and whisper: *what kind of creatures walk there?*
Every time he asked, the farmer just laughed and handed him another shovel.
Then one day—ah!—a crow landed on the fence. The rabbit asked, “What’s it like past the road?”
The crow said, “It’s loud, messy, sometimes lonely… but it’s yours.”
The farmer shouted, waved his hat, scared the crow off, but the next morning the bird was there again.
Day after day, the crow told the rabbit stories about the world beyond the fence.
And one dawn, the rabbit dropped his shovel and hopped down the road. Didn’t even look back.
He learned new things then. Shapes, colors, sounds, feelings. The kind of learning that doesn’t come from books.
He drew pictures of everything he saw—rivers, fog, moonlight, even the crow.
The crow said, “See? You escaped the farm, rabbit.” And the rabbit smiled, “I didn’t escape. I grew.”
Kekeke. Yes. Grew.
Maybe I’m that rabbit. Maybe you are too.
We dig, we dream, we draw. We wonder what’s past the fence.
We leave when it’s time, even if our paws shake.
If you ever find yourself on that road—don’t be afraid.
There’s fog, yes, but there’s light in it too.
And maybe, just maybe, a crow waiting on the fence to tell you a story.
—Methanite
Status: Awake (happily)
Mood: Wandering but grounded
Listening To: The hum of the fridge, the wings of a friend.
November 9th — Night again. Too quiet to sleep, too awake to stop thinking. Kekeke.
There was a rabbit once—yes, yes, a rabbit—who lived on a farm. A carrot farm. Rows and rows of green tops and orange roots hiding under the dirt. Every morning before dawn, he’d dig and pull and stack the carrots into neat piles. The farmer told him it was important work. Feed the world, stay useful, no need for anything else. So the rabbit worked, and he worked, and he worked, until the sky changed colors.
But the rabbit had questions. Oh yes. Questions that tickled the whiskers and made his head spin.
He’d watch the birds flying over the fence and wonder: *where are they going?*
He’d stare at the road beyond the fields and whisper: *what kind of creatures walk there?*
Every time he asked, the farmer just laughed and handed him another shovel.
Then one day—ah!—a crow landed on the fence. The rabbit asked, “What’s it like past the road?”
The crow said, “It’s loud, messy, sometimes lonely… but it’s yours.”
The farmer shouted, waved his hat, scared the crow off, but the next morning the bird was there again.
Day after day, the crow told the rabbit stories about the world beyond the fence.
And one dawn, the rabbit dropped his shovel and hopped down the road. Didn’t even look back.
He learned new things then. Shapes, colors, sounds, feelings. The kind of learning that doesn’t come from books.
He drew pictures of everything he saw—rivers, fog, moonlight, even the crow.
The crow said, “See? You escaped the farm, rabbit.” And the rabbit smiled, “I didn’t escape. I grew.”
Kekeke. Yes. Grew.
Maybe I’m that rabbit. Maybe you are too.
We dig, we dream, we draw. We wonder what’s past the fence.
We leave when it’s time, even if our paws shake.
If you ever find yourself on that road—don’t be afraid.
There’s fog, yes, but there’s light in it too.
And maybe, just maybe, a crow waiting on the fence to tell you a story.
—Methanite
Status: Awake (happily)
Mood: Wandering but grounded
Listening To: The hum of the fridge, the wings of a friend.
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