Stone Cold

Once upon a little time, there was a stone. The stone was rather quiet and small, so people never took notice of it. They always walked right past it, not even giving it a first glance. The poor little stone felt dead, and yet it knew that it wasn't. It could feel the soil and life beneath it, it heard the sound of the forest and the blowing of the wind. The little stone could not for the life of it understand why no one even registered it as a life form. As far as it knew -and it was rather old and wise- it existed just as much as everything else. True, it didn't fly around like the bees or sing like the birds, but neither did the fish. People always payed attention to the fish, putting hooks in them and eating them. No one had ever expressed even the mildest of interests in eating the little stone. Now, it knew that it should probably be glad for not having been eaten yet, but it somehow couldn't see the positive side of it. True, it existed, but was it alive? What was really the point of existing if no one even knew you were there?



This is a story I just wrote. Apparantly, I write stories on this blog. Stories about stones. Hm... This is an interesting new direction.