After many years of sweet solitude, the prophet crawled out from his mountain cave and headed to the market, eager to share the wisdom spilling over his soul. His fingers twitched and the edge of his lips curled at the chance that the market was riddled with empty cups. Once there, he climbed on the table of a fig stand and began to preach.
“I don’t care what you believe in,” he told the crowd “so long as no one else believes it.”
There was a great murmuring as the people discussed this amongst themselves, most struggling to think of any belief that solely belonged to them.
Finally, someone shouted out from the crowd.
“I believe in you.”
Beads of sweat burst upon the prophet’s brow.
“Who said that?” He yelled, throat shaking like a staff strapped with coconut shells. “Who said that? I’ll kill you! Show me who said that!”
But no one laid a finger on his Cassandra, for they told the truth.
When he returned to his cave, he cut out his tongue so the temptation to preach would never return. His wisdom had become an albatross around his neck.
Such was the curse of the wise, he thought as he filled his wretched, bloodied mouth with gauze. Never would he have thought to stand there and laugh. What was he, an idiot?