A great hulking gorilla sits looking at his fingers. He is caged in a zoo, and–no, he was or has been in a cage but now he is in a wide compound, the next stage after the cell, a spacious improvement all the way around, but, still, only a more expansive lock-up.
He is slouched there, maybe in gorilla recall of past times. Other gorillas have tried to rouse him; some touch, pet, tickle, pat, fan him, poke him. But he is not amused, only, for a long while now, sunk, confused, in a haze of almost welcome gloom, leaving no room for present camaraderie, only the stubborn desire to be all by himself. Sometimes a particularly smart or sensitive animal knows what the story is, and in that knowledge is sealed off alone, depressed, apart, roused and cheered by none.
He knows that he is in prison and for no reason he can recall, and it shrivels his heart, and only the old—what was it?—freedom can avail. There is no glory in simply larger quarters, it is still jail. You can call a zoo something else, a vital protective open space, keeping wild endangered animals from harm as on a grand nurturing enhancing farm, but some of them know better, they know they are confined anyhow, and they proceed slowly but surely to lose their mind.
This one here who lingers in his corner, counting or probably just watching his fingers, has been for a long time now inside himself, locked in, reveried, hiding himself, quite done, quite gone.
Moral: When people are guilty in doing what they would, they always say it’s for the others’ good.
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