...I went to the river to paint stones.
But I took pastels. And I hated my efforts.
I have been feeling like a stone.
I am 'just here'. Cold and hard and unchanging. I am nothing better than a stone.
The rain can wear away a stone. A river can shape a stone. The sea can pummel a stone. But I have no rain, no river, no sea. My stone persists. Stone-like.
I call my stone-self 'Stone'. My stone-self is made of stone. My stone-self weighs a thousand stones and has a stony smugness about it. It doesn't care that I don't like being a stone. You are a stone, it says, get used to it.
Overall, I have been a stone for about three years now. I've been a stone before, but not for so long. I exploded into gravel or atoms or dust. This time, the stone remains. My transofimations are done, it seems.
Call me Stone. Stone the Crone.
Comments