Give me a shovel and you’ll be sorry.
I’ll take the shovel because I think I’ll build up a hill. I’ll dig a hole to get the dirt for the hill, but lose myself in the hole. No ladder, no ropes, no friends waiting by my side with open hands. Darkness is closing in. I can’t find a foothold. And there are rats starting to nibble at my toes.
The storm comes at night, whipping around me, tearing at my flesh and blistering my lips. It rains, soaking my clothes, and I shiver and slump, clasping my arms around my knees. I sit and grind my teeth and sob, unable to climb out of the hole. No tarp to cover me. And no one to talk me through it.
Eventually, the daytime arrives, sending a warm blush of a sunrise to the horizon. The clouds fade away, I stand again, and my clothes dry. My wounds heal. And I can open my eyes and start to pull myself out of the hole.
If you give me a shovel, I’ll get cocky and try and build a mountain. It’s much better to just leave me without knowledge of a shovel, or a hill, for that matter.
Because if I know, I’ll just want a shovel.
