Mood:
not sureTopic: "A Thousand Campfires"(4)
There must have been an instance when a hunter stared deep into the embers, while all about him slumbered. Perhaps he had not found prey, or even signs thereof, and the winds had already started to blow, colder and colder. There might even have been pains in his legs and shoulder, keeping him from throwing his spear as straight or as powerfully as he had done for so many seasons. In the darkness he can hear the coughing of a small, too small, child, or the labored breathing of she who has been his constant companion since that first night together. Perhaps even a cave wolf approaches closer to the warmth of the fire, to exchange the companionship shared by providers, no matter the species. Words were not necessary then, nor are they now.
When sleep ends, without explanation, it portends fear, generally of the unknown. Time passes so quickly when success becomes the norm, thinks Frodo this night, for he has great difficulty separating one pleasant day from another, but the storms of the morrow weigh heavily upon his brow. Mount Doom looms, and Frodo knows that all for which he has labored is threatened by things which he cannot control. He stares into the blueness of the electronic marvel before him, just as the hunter separated flame from ash.
The wealth of nations, as Adam Smith so eloquently composed, is in the pattern that followed from the hunter, and led, eventually, to Frodo. What once could be gutted and dried for later consumption by the hunter and those who depended upon him, later became something which was a mere representation of that which had true consumable value. Despite the utility, new dangers lurked about, threatening the holder, his safety, and the very existence of those who depended upon him. He, too, found instances where a fireplace called in the dark of night.
Now there is Frodo, the proud possessor of friends and fealty, standing agape at systems which swallow resources in an instant, leaving the hunter wondering what might happen when the beans are counted in marketplaces half-a-world-away. The worries fall upon him just as they did a thousand campfires ago. The representation becomes as Shakespeare reminded us, noting that all which has changed is the actors themselves, while the stage itself remains as it has always been.
Frodo and friends will wander back into the darkness, in hopes that these words have expunged one small demon. Until the morrow, dear reader.
