Stories Told Through Symbols 🌿

I am a child, sitting on the shore of a marsh.

The thick surface bubbles, and now and then a lonely bubble breaks free.
There’s no one around—just a desolate landscape and a silence that’s almost too loud.
But beyond the marsh rise tall trees.
That’s exactly where I want to go.
Only… there is no path.

At least I think so—until a shaped wooden plank suddenly emerges from the mud, stretching straight toward the other side. I have no idea where it came from. The mud beneath it hardens, as if waiting for my first step. I step on it, tense. The plank sways dangerously under my weight. And because I’m a child (and children often do things that make no sense—or make perfect sense only to them), I start rocking even more. I laugh.
And in that moment the plank snaps, and I plunge into the mud.

Suddenly I’m standing in a long hallway full of people.
An endless line of figures, all smeared with mud just like me.

It looks as if we’ve all been through the same bath.
I feel lost and confused. I grab the hand of the man in front of me. He jerks away without even looking back.
No one speaks here—everyone is on their own.
All have quietly accepted their fate.
So I stand there too.
Time passes—and suddenly I’m an adult.

I ask another man where we are and what’s happening. He shrugs:
“It’s the Order.”
When I say I don’t want to stay here, he looks at me as if I’d just proudly announced that I collect butter wrappers for fun.
He snaps that he won’t let anyone pull him out of line.

But I don’t want to stand in line.
So I simply step out.
I’m not blocking anyone; I’m not cutting in front—
so no one even notices me.
And suddenly that becomes an enormous advantage.

I walk along the line and soon reach a massive wooden wheel.
Two figures take a person—who doesn’t resist—load them onto the wheel, and spin it. The person disappears into a black metal cube.
There’s a screech, a crackling sound, something between a lathe and pots clattering—
and on the far side of the cube, a neat cube of meat slides out onto a conveyor belt.

Along the belt sit strange beings.
Stout creatures with snouts, long ears, and small eyes.

Something between humans and pigs.
Not frightening—more like oversized seasonal workers on an eternal shift.
They wrap the cubes of meat in paper and happily joke with one another.
One of them secretly tucks a piece of meat beneath the belt.
Another pig squeals; a guard rushes over, and the guilty pig is dragged away without ceremony.
Another takes its place.
The only change is that the pig who tattled now has two pieces hidden under the belt.

I ask it if it knows what it’s wrapping.
“That’s the Order,” it replies.
I ask if it feels sorry for the people.
It shrugs… or whatever part of its body is closest to shoulders:
“If humans were in our place, they’d be worse than us.”
Maybe it’s right. Maybe not.
Either way, the pigs only use what offers itself.
And a person who allows themselves to be ground up truly becomes nothing but a piece of meat—no matter who wraps them in paper.

I walk on until I reach the end of the belt.
Several cubes of meat are stacked on the tiles.
The floor ends here, and in front of me opens a wide expanse.
We are high above the ground.
I see blue sky and white clouds.

A white van pulls up.
The driver looks human.
That comforts me—but only for a moment, because he starts loading the cubes of meat into the vehicle.
He gets in, starts the engine.
On impulse, I hop into the seat beside him.
What got into me?
But the driver doesn’t seem surprised at all.

We drive among the clouds.
I ask where we are, what this place is, where we’re going—
and above all, whether he knows what he’s transporting.
The man turns to me, opens his mouth—
and suddenly it’s enormous, filled with two rows of white fangs.
I don’t even have time to feel fear.
Then—darkness.

It hits me: he swallowed me.

But when I look around, I don’t see darkness—I see space.
Stars, galaxies, a silent infinite expanse.
I’m drifting through it, wearing a spacesuit.
I see everything through the visor of my helmet.
There is peace.
The kind of peace I long for.
A place where I could meditate for ages.

And yet, there is unrest in my stomach.
Not fear.
More like the strange awareness that something is wrong.
Everything around me is calm—too calm.
And I realize that if I lived only in the present moment, I would be happy now.
But I can’t forget the people covered in mud.
The line.
The fangs of the driver, in whose stomach I still am.

A white mist spreads around me.
When it parts, I see a tall figure in a white robe.
I call him the Wanderer.
Long white hair flows down his shoulders, and he holds a staff in his hand.
He climbs a high mountain with steady steps.
He reaches the summit and gazes into the land.
I feel relief.
Peace.
And understanding:
the blue sky I saw before—
that was only a possibility.
A place we can never reach on our own.
Someone always guides the direction we go.
Just like the driver of the van.
But this is the true sky.

The Wanderer suddenly transforms into a bird.

He spreads his wings, and I feel myself beating my wings with him.
I see with his eyes.
I feel real freedom.
We fly above the land back along the entire journey—
over the van, over the pigs, over the people standing in line.
I expect to see some clue, something that would explain how to pass through all of this.
But nothing comes.
And again I rise upward through the mud.

I’m back at the marsh.
A child sits on the shore, clean and radiant.
Watching the bubbling surface.
The Wanderer appears beside them, sits down, and speaks with them.
He shows the child the plank and says that now they must cross to the other side—
and they must not stop.

Suddenly I stand on the plank next to the child.
I hold their hand.
Together we cross the marsh and enter the tall trees.
Soft moss underfoot, sunlight between the branches, flowers of every color.
I’d love to stay forever.
But we must continue.

Ahead of us appears a circular stone house.
Inside, eleven men sit at a round table—each resembling the Wanderer, bearded and full of strength.
They are waiting for him.
I tell them he showed us the way across the marsh.
They smile and gift us warm blankets.

We walk on and reach another house.
A woman stands in the doorway.
She asks if we met a man with a white beard on the other side—she’s waiting for him.
I tell her he stayed there, but he helped us.
She brightens, brings us a loaf of bread, and wishes us safe travels.

Then we meet a man plowing a field.
He too is waiting for the man with the white beard.
He offers us warm soup when he hears we came with his help.

Finally, we meet a beautiful fair-haired woman.
She tells us the Wanderer is her husband.
When we explain how he guided us across the marsh, she pulls the child close and says we need not go any farther.
This is our home.
Here, the child can grow up in safety.

The restlessness inside me disappears.
A deep peace washes over me.

And yet…
somewhere in my stomach, I feel a strange tickle.
As if a small voice were whispering:

“You’re still in the driver’s stomach. You just forgot.“