Page 41 of The Boy Who Loved Wicked
We spent what felt like hours ducking behind trees and sneaking stealthily around the house and the neighboring woods in search of one another, and then launching attacks. By the time we stumbled through the door and huddled in front of the fireplace, I was no longer the boy in the window.
“‘The Allegory of the Cave.’”
My hand stilled in his hair. “Book seven of Plato’sRepublic—the most heralded of all his dialogues—is your favorite?” My hand continued raking through his curls. “I’d never take you for a man that went with popular opinion,” I teased. I sat on the floor with my back propped against the plush sofa with Phoenix’s chin to my chest, the logs crackling in the fire and Bessie Smith crooning overhead.
“There’s a reason it’s highly dissected to this day. It’s forever relevant.” He moved and the thin blanket slipped to the top of the mounds below his back.
“You are aware that this began with Socrates?”
“Of course I am,” he said with great offense.
“Do tell.”
He started and stopped. “You already know all this.”
“I prefer seeing it through your eyes.” His brain was an exceptional thing to see in motion, titillating and awe inspiring.
“Well, it’s an analogy for ignorance and enlightenment. And it tells of the dangers of informing people they’re wrong.”
“Continue, Mr. Michaelson,” I said, aware of his need for a passionate connection in this area.
“It started when Socrates asked his listeners to imagine a group of prisoners, chained since birth, in a dark underground cave, facing a wall and unable to turn their heads. Behind them a blazing fire threw shadowy images onto the wall they faced. So the prisoners only see phantoms. A dog, a musical instrument, flowers… in their ignorance, they assume this to be the only reality.”
In his excitement and animation, the fabric covering him from the waist slipped precariously lower, and I worked to keep my attention from splitting.
“One prisoner is freed and in the light of day, discovered thetruenature of reality. He returns to the cave and breaks the remaining group members from their chains, filling them with fanciful tales of life outside of the cave. They didn’t believe him. They found his ramblings of this thing called the sun to be odd. They saw him as a threat to their copacetic world and condemned him to death. I mean, how often has that same scenario played out? Too many times to count.” He tutted.
“So you perceive the cave as the ignorant but blissful world we live in, and the freed prisoner’s ascent from the cave to equal an opportunity to be educated?”
“And the sun is enlightenment gained through said education,” he explained. I pushed his hair behind his ears. “Most of our lives are in shadow. Fame, the perfect partner, the high status job. They’re phantoms projected by the culture on the walls of our flawed minds. But everyone around us is telling us it’s real because they too are in the cave.”
“So if we can’t tell them they’re in the cave for fear of being deemed insane, or worse, a threat to their ordered world—a threat that must be eliminated in order to maintain the status quo, then how do we get them to the sun? To the state of enlightenment?”
He gave a salacious grin. “Through a method that produces higher thinking. The Socratic Method.”
“Care to explain?” I whispered, reaching an arm behind him and grazing my fingers over the temptation on display.
His voice deepened. “Socrates asked questions that encouraged engagement with the goal…” He moaned when I spread one cheek and petted his tender hole.
“With the goal?” I prompted.
“...Of getting others to get to the truth for themselves.”
“Example, Mr. Michaelson.”
He gulped. “In what year did the American Revolution begin?”
My brows met. “1775,” I answered slowly.
“Now, imagine what truths we could discover had I asked, why did the American colonies revolt in 1775?” he said triumphantly.
“What truths indeed, Mr. Michaelson.” I squished his cheeks between my hands and pressed my lips to his now pursed mouth, content to stay that way forever. I sucked in his breaths like they were the finest cigar, and released, giving him mine.
“Was it worth the wait?” he asked, rubbing at the fissure in my chin.
“Are you asking ifyouwere worth the wait?”
“Yes.”
