There is not much to tell about me. My life is an endless span of sameness. When I was young I believed that I was born for greatness. You see, I thought the crescent moon meant something. I believed it meant something, I hopped it meant something. Now that I am older I realize that hope is a child’s comfort and life is what it looks like, a dull, repeat of drudgery.
Madhira, my caretaker, tells me that I am ordinary. That my place in this world is that of a common farmer. My days are filled with deafening quietness. The bleating of goats is my only conversation, that is except for Fleegal. Fleegal and I took up by the spring one day. His simplicity is the only wisdom I trust.