The Golden Ball

So they gave him a golden ball and he held it tight in his tiny hands. Then they all gazed at him. Some with smiles of achievement, some plain curious. The little boy, as awestruck as a penguin in a Saharan caravan, could’t take all that attention, started gazing into the ball instead.
Unaware of what it would do to him, the boy started to admire the glistening ball. He then held it close to his heart, eyes filled with joy, as if he found someone, he never had… he would then start walking, maybe away from them. For a while they seemed to follow him, but then it became too generic to follow him and the numbers slimmed. The boy walked to places, where ever his bare feet would take him, all the while he was gazing in the ball… may be talking to the ball… he had no one else to talk to nor one to talk about but the ball… he would find new followers to the newer places he would go. They all love to see someone so spiritually connected to his possessions, don’t they? Pleases their long ignored feeling called imagination and may I say ambition? None so compassionate though towards the little boy…
For the one that knows no fear… for the one who dares to gaze into the light and talks of worlds beyond… for the one who reads their past differently… they always have a golden ball. To tie him to the ground, to make him lose himself in its glaze, so that they all can tell their children, not to be like the one who has the golden ball…