This is a rock. I picked it up from a decorated way, some years ago.
Once in a while I carry it with me, on my vest’s pocket. Until I change my vest or I have to put some lens in it, where lens and rock don’t mix well.
But I also use to have it on my hand: at work, waiting for the train, on the bus… where ever I feel I need to have a chat with it.
As a matter of fact, I don’t really have any conversation with my rock. Most of the time, I just listen what it has to say. Some long stories, about time, about its age and how really young I am, some times about our ancestors it knew, apes, dinosaurs and so, some times it introduce me to some acquaintance of his: a mountain, some sand, another rock…
It spends lots of time trying to explain how frivolous we, humans, are, when fighting for a piece of land, the same land that was here long, long before we came to the surface and that will be here long, long after we are gone for ever.
It also use to show me the absurdity of the speed we have in life, when we don’t even see a sun rise or a rainbow, when we don’t listen to the birds or fell the breezes. We don't even know when a star is born!
When I pick it up from my pocket and caress it in my hand, my fellows at work say (or think) that I’m getting crazier every day. I suppose it is truth, but it is also truth that the so called “mental sanity” is deathly boring.
Those speeches I get from my friend lead me to a more peaceful condition, a bigger communion with my surroundings, either on my sight or on the other end of the universe. Some times I whish I were a rock, with its wisdom.
I have two others rocks at home. They look like this one, in shape, size and material. But I suppose they don’t get along with me as this one: they don’t talk to me. Probably they think I don’t deserve their attention. After all, they own us, rather than the opposite as we usual think.
Either that or I’m too ignorant to understand them.
Texto e imagem: by me
Once in a while I carry it with me, on my vest’s pocket. Until I change my vest or I have to put some lens in it, where lens and rock don’t mix well.
But I also use to have it on my hand: at work, waiting for the train, on the bus… where ever I feel I need to have a chat with it.
As a matter of fact, I don’t really have any conversation with my rock. Most of the time, I just listen what it has to say. Some long stories, about time, about its age and how really young I am, some times about our ancestors it knew, apes, dinosaurs and so, some times it introduce me to some acquaintance of his: a mountain, some sand, another rock…
It spends lots of time trying to explain how frivolous we, humans, are, when fighting for a piece of land, the same land that was here long, long before we came to the surface and that will be here long, long after we are gone for ever.
It also use to show me the absurdity of the speed we have in life, when we don’t even see a sun rise or a rainbow, when we don’t listen to the birds or fell the breezes. We don't even know when a star is born!
When I pick it up from my pocket and caress it in my hand, my fellows at work say (or think) that I’m getting crazier every day. I suppose it is truth, but it is also truth that the so called “mental sanity” is deathly boring.
Those speeches I get from my friend lead me to a more peaceful condition, a bigger communion with my surroundings, either on my sight or on the other end of the universe. Some times I whish I were a rock, with its wisdom.
I have two others rocks at home. They look like this one, in shape, size and material. But I suppose they don’t get along with me as this one: they don’t talk to me. Probably they think I don’t deserve their attention. After all, they own us, rather than the opposite as we usual think.
Either that or I’m too ignorant to understand them.
Texto e imagem: by me
1 comentário:
Beautiful!
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