What's this? The rope laid aside? The oxherd riding on the ox, playing a simple reed? The two moving as one?
It's true, for one thing has a way of leading to another. Once the boy relaxed his grip on the rope, he let go of it altogether. He decided the Idea wasn't his to keep. It wasn't his to profit from. And since he didn't own it, he had no fear of losing it.
The Idea changed too. Freed of the oxherd's possessiveness, it ceased to possess him. It turned white, its mass emptied out, the burden it imposed gone. It became transparent: you could see through to its very essence. It began to rise, no longer bound by forest mud to earth.
The oxherd, trusting, lets the Idea carry him along. All he knows is the sway of its back, its undulating muscles, the warm aroma of its skin. Now he is certain that birth will come--somehow, somewhere, sometime--if not through him, then through another.
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