It was a sunny day. Monsieur Voltaire was taking a leisurely stroll in his garden. The sunlight was warm and pleasant, and its golden rays danced upon the beads of water resting on flower petals. The butterflies, too, seemed to have received an invitation, fluttering from one bloom to another as if socialising with the crowd.

Prolly, a true proletariat, sat cross-legged on the ground, his chin resting on one hand, a furrow carved deep into his brow. His thoughts seemed to swirl around him like volcanic smoke—unsettled, hot, alive. When Voltaire saw him, he slowed his steps and approached. Gently placing his cane upon the grass, he sat beside the young man, wearing a concerned smile.

Voltaire:
What troubles you so, my friend, that your eyes are fixed upon the mud, when the sun above shines with such warmth and cheer?

Prolly:
An old argument returned to me last night, and it’s kept me from sleep. A friend once said something I can’t seem to shake off. I’m starting to wonder if he was right in doubting me.

Voltaire:
Pray tell—what exactly did he say?

Prolly:
He said I hold no power in this world, so there’s no point in raising my voice. I’m neither a bureaucrat nor a charity. He told me that my concern for injustice is meaningless. That I should just enjoy the money I earn and not get consumed by the problems of the world.

Voltaire:
Why do you let yourself be wrapped in the opinions of others? Do you truly want to live your life according to his vision?

Prolly:
No, of course not. But just because I disagree with one thing he says doesn’t mean I should reject everything. Some of his points might very well be valid.

Voltaire:
Fair enough. But tell me—in this democratic head of yours, who decides what is worth agreeing with and what is not?

Prolly:
…I do.

Voltaire (chuckling):
A tyrant then! And how do you decide which of his points are valid?

Prolly:
Alright, take his suggestion that I shouldn’t concern myself with the world’s events. He thinks I shouldn’t care about society, because I don’t have the power to change anything. But I think that’s wrong. I can’t simply stop caring because he says I should.

Voltaire:
So you disagree because you know his vision of your life isn’t the one you want to lead?

Prolly:
Exactly.

Voltaire:
And what part of his thinking do you agree with?

Prolly:
It’s not so much agreement as it is doubt. Maybe he’s right. Maybe all my efforts will go in vain. Maybe society won’t listen to me. I’m just one man. What difference can I really make?

Voltaire:
Sure, you are just one man—and perhaps powerless compared to the mighty—

Prolly:
I know.

Voltaire:
But that should never stop you. Even if your voice reaches only a few, it still holds meaning. Every voice, right or wrong, is a clue in society’s search for the ultimate truth. That’s the only thing that’s absolute. The truth—pure and unbroken—is reality. And anything that diverges from that is false. You might be far from it, or close to it. That’s for society to determine. But your voice must still be heard. It helps guide the way.

Prolly:
I never saw it like that, Voltaire. But what if my voice is so wrong that it leads people away from the truth?

Voltaire:
Then that, too, is part of the journey. Every wrong idea disproven helps society move a step closer to what’s right. Sometimes, a misstep is the very thing that brings clarity. That’s when society ascends.

Prolly:
I see.

Voltaire:
You are quite the paradox, you know. You don’t believe in yourself, and you don’t believe in society’s ability to find its way. And yet, you’re still afraid of what such a society thinks of you.

Prolly (smiling faintly):
Man is a complex creature, milord!