Wonderland

Once upon a time, a monkey named Adam was born.

It was said—by God, by fate, or by a voice that required no proof—that he had been given a task: to redeem the world.

Full of confidence, he stepped onto his journey.

On the first day, Adam met Hermes waving his Caduceus. Adam begged him to open the door to the Realm of Spring and Harmony - a threshold neither entirely dreamed nor fully awake.

Hermes smiled. He summoned the west wind, and at the hour when the moon rose, sent Adam into a realm that existed precisely because it could not be confirmed - a place where every creature eventually finds what it has been wanting all along.

Adam drifted, waiting, watching a spectacle as resplendent as the birth of the universe itself. Countless white points of light—just as he now was—moved toward a distant black hole. The world seemed to be born in a mother’s womb and perished beneath ladies’ dress. He entered the brightest convergence of light and released his first cry.

A monkey named Adam was born.

Following his mother’s guidance, he began the journey of life.

As a child, Adam was a little rascal. He laughed loudly every day, made friends everywhere, and delighted in teasing the white bunny living next door. One day, bunny gathered all her brothers and sisters—one hundred and eight in total—and blocked Adam on the playground, refusing to let him go. They demanded him to swear never to bully the little white bunny again, or else they would beat him up.

Adam returned home in tears and complained to his mother. She wrapped him in her arms and gently patted his back.

That calm, ocean-like tenderness lulled him into deep sleep. In his dream, he became a joyful woodpecker, flying through remote mountains in search of trees afflicted by hidden illness.

On the second day, Adam awoke from his dream. His mother told him, that it was time to start to go to school.

Adam loved school—for the spring outings, summer breaks, autumn excursions, and winter holidays. He loved the officially sanctioned times for play, and even more, the companions who played alongside him. He could play alone, but with friends, time passed far more quickly. It felt as though tomorrow he would become a grown-up, able to take care of his mother.

In the morning, on his way to school, he met an elephant with a sorrowful face.

Mr.Elephant was spring outing. He lost his hat.

“Good morning, Mr. Elephant! How are you doing today?” the little monkey named Adam greeted him.

“Morning, little Adam. I lost my hat. Could you keep an eye out for it on your way to school?”

“What does it look like?”

“A very, very big hat. I worked for a long time, finally earned a promotion and a bonus, and decided to take a vacation. But a bitter wind from the far north blew my hat away!” Mr. Elephant sighed. “It was such a marvelous hat. When you wore it, endless praise would pour toward you. Though it was unbearably heavy—bending my neck and spine so that I could no longer move my head freely—but those praises! They made it impossible for me to part with it.”

Adam looked at the elephant with confusion. He thought: perhaps this was what Mr. Elephant most deeply desired.

“Alright, Mr. Elephant,” Adam said. “I’ll keep an eye out. Hope you enjoy your spring outing. Goodbye!”

Naturally, Adam never found the enormous, beautiful hat. He didn’t notice that, blown into the mud by the northern wind, the hat was no longer beautiful, nor large. It fell into a sewer, into the home of Mr. Rat who lived in the gutter.

Mr. Rat adored the hat. Whenever he touched its crown, endless praise poured out from speakers hidden along its sides. Mr. Rat enjoyed these praises without guilt and slept with the hat beneath him.

That night, Mr. Rat had a dream. He dreamed that he had become an elephant, his spine bent beneath a ridiculously huge hat. When he awoke, the dream dissolved completely, and he returned to stealing bread from his usual warehouse, diligent as ever.

On the third day, Adam—now pursuing a doctorate in world history—still felt deeply confused about the world. He no longer tried to uncover the secrets of the stars through Darwin’s journals, yet he remained curious about the tears of ancient dinosaurs.

All around him, blades of grass swayed in the wind, shouting:

“It’s time! Graduate!”

“It’s time! Get a job!”

“It’s time! Get married!”

“It’s time! Have children!”

But the little grasses could not understand a monkey’s longing for the world.

As a monkey, Adam yearned profoundly for the sky and the sea.

He had grown weary of professors’ endless formalities, and sick of cigarette butts’ reflections on life.

He decided to bid farewell—to his mother, to the grass, to school, to everything familiar. He packed his bag and left his homeland behind.

A monkey named Adam was born.

Following the guidance of fate, he began the path of discovering himself.

On the fourth day, Adam went to the ocean, where he met a lost stone.

The stone had endured countless trials and was no longer the great boulder it once was atop a mountain. Pushed by wind, kicked by wild horses, carried along by passing geese, it tumbled and struggled until it finally arrived here.

Adam spoke to it gently. “Mr. Stone, why did you come to the sea?”

The stone sighed. “The sand by the river said this was the final destination of all stones. I wanted to see what a destination looked like. But upon arriving, I realized this is not my end. It isn’t as beautiful as I imagined, and I don’t wish to stop walking. In my long life, I’ve never felt such a powerful urge: if this is the only act of self-will I am ever granted, I wish to go a little farther. Dear little monkey, would you carry me with you? I wish to travel alongside you, wherever you may go.”

Adam gazed at the red sun sinking toward the horizon and breathed in the salty, fishy air carried by the sea breeze.

“No problem, Mr. Stone,” he said. “I’ll take you far away.”

That night, Adam held the stone in his arms and lay among the tree branches, watching the moon. The laurel tree released a cool, gentle fragrance that reminded him of his mother far away. With longing in his heart, he fell into deep sleep.

In his dream, he returned to childhood—ignorant of the world, carefree and unburdened.

On the fifth day, Adam and Mr. Stone climbed to the summit of a snow-covered mountain. Gazing at endless white peaks, the stone sighed. “This is not my destination either. Let’s leave.”

“We’ve come so far,” Adam said. “From the southern seas to the northern lands, we’ve traveled one hundred and eight thousand miles. Have you still not found your home yet?”

The answer was only silence—and the sound of footsteps approaching from afar.

A figure emerged, cloaked in a radiant darkness woven of night and dawn. His steps were heavy, his arrival soundless, his departure the same.

“Hello! Sir—” Adam called after him.

The figure stopped and turned. He looked at them.

What kind of eyes were those? Adam had walked countless roads and met innumerable people, yet never had he seen eyes so vividly alive—appearing on a snowbound peak without direction, before the mingling of red sun and crescent moon. Such eyes could exist only here, only now, only before Adam, who sought a home with devotion.

A monkey named Adam was born.

Following the mission he gave himself, he found the home of his heart.

The man spoke no words and did not slow his pace. Adam stumbled forward, carrying the stone, following him. The man never gave his name; Adam could only call him the Mountain Gravekeeper.

He lived in a small wooden cabin at the foot of the mountain, growing sweet potatoes and corn. Adam and Mr. Stone built another small cabin beside his. The gravekeeper said nothing, as if indifferent to all that occurred. He allowed everything—allowed them to remain by his side.

Thus, Adam and the stone settled in the mountains. The stone remained quiet, sighing softly.

Each morning, Adam collected the first drop of dew from the leaves. Each evening, he wished the mayflies good night. Before sleeping, he always called out loudly to the stone and the Gravekeeper, “See you tomorrow!”

On the sixth day, Adam rose early. A light rain fell outside the cabin. When he turned to greet the stone, he found it gone.

He searched every corner of the cabin. The stone was nowhere to be found.

Adam sat at the doorway from morning until dusk, from star-filled night until the first drop of dew fell upon the soil. The stone never returned.

He couldn’t understand why Mr. Stone had left, nor how. Had none of the places Adam brought it been satisfactory? Was it abandoning him at last? He couldn’t understand why the loss grieved him so deeply—why he mourned a being destined to leave.

After sitting for a long, long time, Adam awoke as if from a great dream.

Perhaps the sun that day was different. Perhaps the stars shone brighter. Or perhaps the Gravekeeper shared a piece of corn from his garden—unusually sweet.

In any case, Adam awakened—from a spotless dream, from illusions like reflections in water.

Ah, so it was fate.

That night, Adam slept beneath the stars. His dreams were empty. He slept especially well.

On the seventh day, the first snow fell.

Adam set out early with the Gravekeeper. They climbed from the foot of the mountain toward its summit. Once again, Adam saw the boundless snow and distant peaks—but this time without the stone’s sighs or companionship.

The Gravekeeper remained silent, his eyes fixed on the immaculate sky and the birds vanishing into the mountains.

In the stillness, Adam’s heart gradually grew calm. Together, they watched the landscape.

After some time, the Gravekeeper rose and slowly descended the mountain. They sat by the cabin, ate sweet potatoes, then climbed again.

That day, they climbed the mountain three thousand six hundred and one times, and ate three thousand six hundred and one sweet potatoes.

If you ask whether the sweet potatoes were still delicious—

After thirty-six times, Adam would tell you: a sweet potato is just a sweet potato.

After three hundred and sixty times, he would say he could no longer taste it.

After three thousand six hundred times, he would say it was as sweet as the first bite.

On the three-thousand-six-hundred-and-first ascent, Adam wrote the first line in Adam’s Diary:

“Tao creates one; one creates two; and the three creates everything.”

Then he wrote a second line:

“What follows concerns my one and only life.”

That night, Adam dreamed he became a butterfly, flew into a valley, and entered the dream of a little monkey.

The little monkey awoke. There were no sweet potatoes, no corn, no Gravekeeper, no eternal mountain—only a butterfly spiraling toward the edge of the sky.

A monkey named Adam was born.

After stirring a hurricane across the ocean, he died on the same day.