The pounding behind his eyes woke Bertram every morning, a rhythmic stampede in a skull-sized savannah. “It’s the elephants,” he’d groan, pressing his palms against the throbbing tent of his forehead. He knew, with the unshakeable certainty of a man who’s felt it every hour of his life, that his headaches were caused by a menagerie of rogue pachyderms in his cranial cavity.
Doctors rolled their eyes. Therapists prescribed mindfulness. Family staged interventions. “No elephants, Bertram,” his wife, Mildred, would say, her patience as thin as paper in the dry season of his affliction. Even Mildred, who used to chuckle at his outlandish metaphors, had succumbed to the weight of logic.
But Bertram knew. He felt their trumpeting in his ears, their lumbering gait in his skull, the dust of their stampede coating his tongue. Each headache was a parade. Migraines were stampedes, tension headaches a waltz of trunks. Once, in the throes of a particularly brutal cluster headache, he swore he felt a tusk jabbing at his right orbit.
The doctors, of course, found nothing. Scans showed a perfectly normal brain, an insult to the chaos orchestrating within. Bertram retreated, ostracized by medical skepticism and familial concern. He found solace only in scribbling his woes online, pouring his elephantine reality onto the internet’s open plains.
Then, it happened. One sleepless night, a flicker of sensation beneath his tongue. He gasped, watching in horrified fascination as a miniature grey trunk pushed its way out, followed by beady eyes and wrinkled skin. A baby elephant, no bigger than his thumb, tumbled onto his pillow.
He screamed, of course, but no Mildred came. He was alone, staring down at the miniature tusk-less monstrosity. Panicked, he rushed to the mirror, heart hammering. And there, nestled amongst his reflection’s thinning hair, was another. Then another. A parade of tiny elephants, erupting from his scalp like popcorn in a microwave.
The world went mad. News crews camped outside his door, scientists clambered over him, his blog lit up like a Christmas tree. Finally, they believed. He was the Elephantiac, a medical marvel, a freak show hero. Money rained down, book deals were inked, talk shows vied for his tearful monologues.
And through it all, Bertram remembered. He remembered the scorn, the dismissal, the lonely years with only his phantom pachyderms for company. He watched those who’d called him mad, who’d mocked his “imaginary elephants,” now pleading for handouts, for a piece of his newfound fame.
He ignored them. The elephants, after all, weren’t his circus. They were his burden, his reality, the stampeding orchestra in his skull. And now, finally, the world was dancing to their tune.
Bertram, the Elephantiac, turned off the camera, closed his laptop, and listened to the trumpeting inside his head. It was a lonely symphony, yes, but tonight, it was also a song of vindication. And for the first time in years, a tiny smile creased his face. The elephants, it seemed, weren’t the only ones enjoying the parade.
Blind Devotion: When Herd Mentality Masks the Truth
Bertram, the Elephantiac, is a poignant illustration of how deeply ingrained beliefs, shared by a community, can blind us to the truth, even when it parades unashamedly through our skulls. His phantom elephants, dismissed as delusions by doctors and family, stand as a metaphor for the uncomfortable realities we often choose to ignore as long as they don’t disrupt the comfort of shared paradigms.
The initial dismissal of Bertram’s claims reflects the pervasive nature of cognitive dissonance. His doctors, steeped in the logic of scans and textbooks, couldn’t reconcile his elephants with their established framework. Similarly, Mildred, initially a pillar of support, eventually succumbed to the weight of societal norms, unable to bear the burden of his unconventional reality. Both individuals, like countless others caught in the tug-of-war between personal experience and collective assumptions, chose to dismiss Bertram’s truth to maintain the harmony of their own belief systems.
However, the eruption of miniature elephants marks a dramatic shift in power. The once-invisible truth explodes into the objective world, forcing everyone to confront it. The sudden shift from skepticism to fascination showcases the fickle nature of shared beliefs. What was once ludicrous becomes a spectacle, a medical marvel, a goldmine.
Bertram’s newfound fame throws light on the opportunistic side of cognitive dissonance. Those who mocked him now scramble for a piece of his stardom, their previous disbelief conveniently forgotten. This transformation exposes the shallowness of shared beliefs, often driven by self-interest and social validation rather than a genuine quest for truth.
But Bertram, through his stoic silence, emerges as a beacon of authenticity. He chooses not to exploit the very system that marginalized him, refusing to become a mere pawn in the circus of his own truth. This act of defiance highlights the importance of individual courage in challenging the comfortable narratives woven by dominant perspectives.
Bertram’s story is a cautionary tale about the seductive power of conformity, a reminder that shared beliefs, while offering a sense of belonging, can also act as blinders, obscuring the messy, often elephantine, truths that lie beyond. It is a call to embrace the discomfort of challenging assumptions, to listen to the whispers of dissent within our own skulls, and to value personal conviction over the fickle applause of the herd. By acknowledging the limitations of shared beliefs, we can begin to forge a path towards a more inclusive and honest understanding of the world, one where even the most improbable elephants have a chance to be seen.
Does God Exist? 