The Evolutionary Hypothesis

If a butterfly can sing, then a whale can run faster and farther than any tortoise and hare. If a whale can run faster and farther, then what’s to stop it from growing, from changing? Evolution, Darwin called it, but shh, we’re in the Bible belt; don’t curse, it doesn’t become a gentleman. Plato would call evolution reason’s reason, the shadows of the fireplace in the cave beyond yours that give you an inkling you run with – faster now! If the whale outruns you, where does that leave you? You evolve too, once you’ve finished the race, and you won’t realize it right then. No, you’ll be too tired to think much of anything, but then, the next time the tiredness seeps through your bones into the dark marrow that supports you, hindsight will kick in and you’ll know. Evolution is a ceaseless process, both physical and mental, that produces a whale who runs through clouds or a butterfly who sings honey. Because of evolutionary theory, you learn at a young age not to bite your tongue around ignorance, because someone enlightened you once. And yes, ma’am, I do understand what I’m saying, but no ma’am I won’t hold my horses on account of they’ve been holding themselves in the stalls since before I was a chicken (or was I an egg?), and that’s the metaphor. Metaphors are a revolutionary evolution, Paul Revere mused, and the British are coming for the whale who runs through clouds on account of his horses stalling themselves in their stall, but by leaving a record of all of this in the cracks of the nooks and crannies of the Liberty Bell, I can preserve an idea that will one day become someone’s muse. I invoke the Muses as I seek an end to the metaphor of myself because no matter how hard I try, metaphors define metaphors and that’s just how I think, how the explanations come to me. By no means do I claim to have out-sped the tortoise and hare, but I know I heard a butterfly sing once back behind the dugout near the honeysuckle bush, and I think that’s enough to make myself into a metaphorical thesis. One ripe for the picking, a hardened glob of gum stuck between the split wedges of the Liberty Bell.

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