This picture is the perfect combination of sad and grotesque; it puts a smile on my face every time I see it.
Deep in an old forest lives a bear hidden in a cave. This bear’s den sits in a disenchanted place, carved out of a knoll covered in weeds and knotted trees. Light rarely reaches this place, touching the mouth of the den a few precious times when the wind blows holes in the mat of leaves blanketing the area. Inside the den the bear lays on a bed of moss regardless of the season, never leaving the dank confines of its home.
The bear is old, its fur yellowed from age. Its breathing is heavy and labored. The yellow body of the bear is a gelatinous mass, its stubby arms and legs useless for any meaningful movement, yet it manages to grab at a pot of honey and shovel its face full of the stuff. The honey drips around its mouth and onto the bear’s red shirt, a gift from a little boy who once loved the bear but is now long gone. The shirt is ragged and torn, stretched thin by the bear’s girth. The bear keeps it out of habit.
Sleepy sounds seep into the den from outside, the summer heat unable to find its way down into the twisted cave concealing the bear. The bear keeps its jar of honey close, the only comfort left while buried underground. Honey, once the great love in the bear’s life, is now compulsion. There is no joy left in the bear’s eyes, and the luster has left the black beads set deep in his face. All that’s left in those eyes is the dull embers of a tired life waiting to drink the one nectar the bear has yet to taste, the sweet mercy of death. Sleep comes easy to the creature.
