It’s a little known fact that every child eventually arrives at a crossroads. It is a crossroad of will and wonder. It is, the time when one child says, “Math is not for me,” or “If I must learn to like science, then I had best study harder.” In short, it is the moment, when a child decides on their relationship to the soul-voice within. Epimethius felt himself quickly coming to such a point. For weeks, now, Prometheus had been attempting to school his charge on the intricacies of philosophy. The boy’s interest, he was growing increasingly certain, lay elsewhere.
“What is the essence of soul?” Prometheus asked the question in an almost rhetorical way, as he strode forward and back before his lone student.
“Soul…doesn’t have essence.” Epimethius had lately taken to guessing that everything was a trick question.
“Very good. Why does soul not have an essence?”
That was new. Epimethius found himself stumbling over the unexpected success of his stratagem. After two weeks of guessing, he had finally guessed correctly. It was enough, almost, to make him consider puzzling out the answer with logic. But that was absurd. What power of logic could a seven year old boy posses? Still…he did have a start. He knew (now and quite accidentally) that soul did not have an essence, and yet knew equally well that he himself did have an animating force. Perhaps, then, it was all a question of semantic definition? It was all about what his father was calling “soul”—hitherto understood to be the animating power itself…but, no, once thought of that way Epimethius knew that there was more to it. The idea of “soul” included with it a sense of individuality, a uniqueness, personality, even. If that was the case, then the animating power would be only the seed of the soul. The actual sole would come thereafter, built layer upon layer as one experienced this input and chose that action. The soul, then would not be innate, and therefore would not have an “essence” but rather would be a sedimentary compilation of a person’s life.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Epimethius blinked several times in quick succession. Even trying to trace the line of reasoning back to where it had began seemed like an exhausting task to his seven-year-old mind. Still…
“Soul does not have an essence,” he said, trying to remember his thoughts, “rather it has a seed. The animating power which allows me to live is the seed which makes the soul possible, the actual soul is…accumulated” he stumbled over the difficult word “over the course of experience and choice throughout the duration of one’s life.” Even as he said it the sentence sounded stuffy and obtuse and he was once again reminded why he hated these exercises so much. Give him a grape seed and a foot of ground any day. Let him experience the slow, inevitable march of life and the gritty simplicity of nature rather than this whirlwind of mind and theory. However, even as the thought flitted through his mind, he saw the look of absolute pride on Prometheus’ face and he knew that he would sit through a thousand such lessons without grumbling if he could, once every fortnight, see his father look like that.