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The Multi Purpose Chameleon

The Multi Purpose Chameleon

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Published by jules
thoughts on identity - we are what we are and in that we delight!
But what if we cant see the forest for the trees?
what if we cant tell the difference between forest and trees?
thoughts on identity - we are what we are and in that we delight!
But what if we cant see the forest for the trees?
what if we cant tell the difference between forest and trees?

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Published by: jules on Mar 25, 2009
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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The Multi-purpose Chameleon Once upon a time there was a chameleon who lived in the forest that

began at the base of the hill and finished at the fork of the two rivers. Basically the chameleon was a decent enough sort of chap but there was a nasty flaw in his character. Because he changed his appearance to that of his immediate environment, he was slightly unstable. When he sat on a rock and took on the appearance of the rock he also assumed the personality of a rock. “The trouble with us,” he mentioned to his host in a still moment. “Is we don’t get around much.” Later, sitting, merging in shades of green with the grass; concentrating on perfecting the sighing, wistful song that grass sings, he tried to attract a passing butterfly. Grass enjoys the feeling of tiny butterfly feet scratching its heads. The butterfly was unimpressed. He gave up and began to whistle to himself. Grass has little conversation. That evening, bored with the grass experience, he moved to the trunk of a huge and elderly oak. He settled himself comfortably and began to sway gently with adoration and admiration. “We trees,” he mentioned in the deep pompous voice he imagined trees to have. “We trees stand firmly between earth and sky.” He preened his bark textured body smugly. “I think you’re silly,” said the tree. “Get off my bark.” Broken hearted the chameleon moved away. Sniffing his way through murky tear-mists he managed to find his way to a large stone and sat down. He pondered the treacherous, spiteful nature of trees and became so preoccupied with this pastime he completely forgot that as he was sitting on a stone he ought to be stone coloured, thinking stone thoughts. He was thinking his thoughts and he was his own colour. It took a while for him to realise this but finally the possibility of a thought penetrated the misery and tears of the dejected chameleon and he began to giggle.

“If I’m not thinking stone thoughts, and I’m not presenting stone colours then I’m not looking like a stone. If I don’t look like a stoner then nobody will think Im a stone and if I don’t feel like a stone then I cant be a stone and if I’m not a stone I must be me.” He thought about this for a while. “I’ve got to the hard bit,” he mentioned to himself. “What am I?” he thought of all the things he had ever sat on, all the things he had ever been, ever wanted to be and suddenly he understood. He was the chameleon – the changer. He wasn’t really a rock or a tree, concrete or a wall. He was, yet was not – he was all these things and more. Calmly and with great deliberation he took a deep breath and changed. Joyously poised on the rock he began flashing rainbow colours and textures. At last he explored the limitlessness of his nature, displayed his infinite changing repertoire. The Chameleon.

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