In the forest of Hatuga, each is called to their own lot. The lot of a Tree Frog is not the lot of the Whale, and the Whale likewise can never hope to take on the burden belonging to the Spider. Each has a role, each has a purpose, each has a thing it does for which the forest itself is grateful. For Hatuga revolves on the axis of deeds. What can be done if nothing is actually done? Nothing at all. Nothing for all.
In Hatuga, there lived two types of cows. The first was a land cow. She was heavily built, rather slow, confined to wherever her sure-hooved legs would carry her. They would not carry her very far, for she had no reason to go very far anyways. But they were strong, and much was entrusted to her because she could handle it.
The second cow was a sea cow. Specifically, a Dugong, who was a free-swimmer and prided herself on no attachments for whom she would need to actually take stock in pride. No, pride meant nothing to her, for lazing about all day and eating as much seagrass as she desired was all that mattered, and the number of tricks she could pull underwater. The better the trick, the better the thrill, and the Dugong was simply pleased in that regard.
The Dugong heard about this so-called land cow which lived much further inland, plodding about with its embarrassing udders and slaving away for the good of its community. It chortled and jeered at the idea of this helpless creature leading such a masochistic life, and made up songs that would shame the poor beast should it ever wander into the ocean where she had all the fun she could handle with nary a care.
When word of this sea-cow and its mean little songs reached the ears of the land cow, she swished her tail a few times irritably and then forgot about it. For what use was this musical lard in the sea foam to one with responsibilities? Her deeds spoke against the lies the Dugong made up about her, and the land cow was comforted by those who relied on her as they spurned the spiteful ditty and soon all word of this sea-cow was forgotten.
Decades passed, and both the land cow and the sea cow died. For some stories are unceremonious, two disputes clashing on the voice of the breeze, only to fade away shortly thereafter. Indeed, most stories are like this – and for that they are rarely told.
When the land cow passed away, she was buried with revered circumstance. Many had benefited from her milk, her sure hoof, her motherly lowing. And so the loss heavily impacted her community. But not in the way of misery, no, for they celebrated her life and how she touched them all. She was loved, and everyone knew it.
When the sea cow perished, her bloated body floated to the surface for a week before built-up gas escaped from the carcass and she sunk beneath the waves. No one would remember her, her tricks, or her song. Heck, no one would even know she died, save the scavengers who came to feed before even they snubbed their noses at her putrid blubber. For the Dugong lived for no one and nothing for her own pleasure, and pleasure is not the sort of thing that lives longer than the present moment. One might even say, having left no impact on Hatuga, that the Dugong hardly existed at all.
Morning's Early Dark 