Like the others, the black sheep followed the shepherd wherever it went. He didn’t think about what he was doing, nor why. He followed because the others did. He wanted so much to be accepted, to be seen as one of the gang, but despite his efforts they continued to see him as an outcast. Different. The bleats that came out of his mouth made no sense to them, of course because he was speaking a different language. His black wool stood out in the crowd of white, and often he was the subject of attention that, once upon a time, the black sheep saw as popularity, but now came to see as ridicule. A circus freak, so to speak. Yet still he tried, tried so hard to fit in. He just wasn’t capable of giving up.
He should have, because there was never any chance of becoming one of the gang, fully. He was always going to be different, and it was about time he realised that.
One day, he stopped following. He gave up on the ridiculous pursuit of acceptance, and learned to deal with the fact that he was different. Perhaps not special, but different all the same. He wandered off down the grassy hill, not one of the others turning back to see him go.
He felt enlightened.