I take the dog for a
walk every morning along the river.
The path is made of grit and gravel, and yet I always see a dozen snails
bang in the middle of it, trying to get from one side to the other. It must be agony on their tender little
bellies. So why, I wonder, do they
do it? Do they just set off in a
straight line, and stick to it, come what may? At what point does tenacity cease to be a personal asset and
become a liability? At what point
does it become stupidity?
Or is it really about
hope?
Do the snails simply
hope that there is something better on the other side of the path, and keep
going, buoyed up on a slime of optimism?
I can tell, of course, from my lofty point of view, that the vegetation
on the left hand side of the path is no more likely to satisfy snail-y
appetites than the vegetation on the right. Does that necessarily invalidate the snail's quest? Who can
say?
I guess it depends on
your point of view.
