In a dimly lit lecture hall filled with twisting vines and oversized toadstools, the Caterpillar lounged on a massive, velvety mushroom that served as both podium and perch. The room buzzed with a strange energy, like the walls themselves were curious to hear what would happen next. A lazy swirl of smoke hung in the air, twisting into shapes as the Caterpillar puffed on an ornate hookah.
The students were an odd bunch, each stranger than the last. At the front sat Tweedledee and Tweedledum, identical in every way except for the tiny differences they insisted didn’t exist. Beside them, a card from the Queen’s court scribbled notes with one corner of its flat, red body. Toward the back, a dormouse balanced on a teacup, blinking sleepily but clearly determined to stay awake.
The Caterpillar exhaled a perfect ring of smoke that hovered in the air like a question mark before fading away. Leaning forward, the Caterpillar spoke, voice slow and deliberate.
“Who. Are. You?”
The students glanced at each other nervously. The question hung in the air, heavy and almost too big to grasp.
Tweedledee raised a tentative hand. “I’m Tweedledee,” he said, puffing up his chest.
“And I’m Tweedledum!” his twin added, like the universe needed this fact to stay in balance.
The Caterpillar’s antennae twitched. Was that amusement? Disdain? It was hard to tell. “Are you?” the Caterpillar asked, smoke curling around the words. “Or are you just parroting what you’ve been told? Names, my dear twins, are not identity. Who. Are. You?”
Tweedledee and Tweedledum froze, their mouths slightly open.
“We’re...” started Tweedledee.
“We’re us?” finished Tweedledum, but it sounded more like a question.
“How imaginative,” the Caterpillar said, exhaling another plume of smoke with a roll of its eyes. “Identity isn’t just about names or looking alike. It’s a journey—a messy, endless tangle of choices, actions, and the dance between freedom and responsibility. But don’t let me interrupt your riveting display of sameness.”
From the back of the room, the dormouse stirred. “I think,” it said softly, blinking its big, sleepy eyes, “I’m a dream. Or maybe the one dreaming. I’m not sure which.”
The Caterpillar tilted its head slightly, expression unreadable. “A dream and the dreamer. How profound—if only it weren’t so obvious. But remember, dreams shape the dreamer as much as the other way around. Do try to keep up.”
A rustling sound came from the side of the room. The card raised a corner of itself to speak. “If we’re shaped by choices, then what about the rules? What if I’m just following orders? Can I still be... me?”
The Caterpillar took a long, slow puff from the hookah. “Ah, the rules. How comforting for those who’d rather not think for themselves. You’re bound by them, sure. But even within rules, there’s space for choices. How you follow them, why you follow them—those things matter. They shape who you are, perhaps even more than the rules themselves. Though, clearly, you haven’t thought about it that far.”
Tweedledee and Tweedledum whispered furiously to each other, clearly trying to work out their next answer. Finally, Tweedledee stood up, looking determined. “We’re not just Tweedledee and Tweedledum. We’re ideas! Contrasts, reflections of each other, but also... different.”
The Caterpillar gave a small nod, though its expression was far from impressed. “Better. But let me ask you this: Is an idea still an idea if it’s never shared, never spoken? Or does it wither like a mushroom left in the dark? Don’t strain yourselves too hard answering.”
The twins sat back down, looking like they had even more questions than before.
The Caterpillar scanned the room, gaze landing on each student like it was peeling back the layers of their thoughts. “Who you are isn’t a puzzle to solve. It’s a question you live. Every choice, every failure, every little joy or heartbreak adds to the answer. And even then, it’s never finished. Now, think on that, and maybe next time, you’ll manage something less insipid.”
With that, the Caterpillar exhaled a final cloud of smoke that filled the room with shifting shapes: a question mark, a labyrinth, a pair of mirrored twins. Then it leaned back into the mushroom, clearly done for the day.
The students filed out, lost in their own thoughts. None of them said it, but every single one felt like the Caterpillar had asked the question directly to their very soul: Who are you?
This entry was posted on Thursday, January 9th, 2025 at 10:41 pm and is filed under Stories. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.
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