Perhaps one walked on a beach, and picked up a stone that stood out amongst the others. It felt nice in one’s hand, so was placed in a pocket. Conceivably it would make for an interesting decoration, or serve as a reminder of the beautiful shore, or would bring good fortune, or maybe human desire for material gain compelled the collection. But, for whatever reason, the stone was obtained.

One returned home and placed the stone on his windowsill, and there it sat. The window had a wonderful view and was soaked in light come morning, and was often cracked so breezes could drift through.

The stone sat and time went by. For the parents in the house, time passed like a frantic animal of prey attempting to escape destruction. For the children, it dragged its feet like a sun that is too tired to rise. And for the baby, time was recognized in moments like waves, and forgotten in the large expanses of water that hardly seem to exist at all. And for the rock, time was just a substance as irrelevant as air.

Indeed, to the stone, everything was meaningless. It was called lovely, it was called lucky, it was called a stone, but it called itself nothing. It was held and admired and forgotten and dusted and rediscovered and held again, but glance and touch were empty, for the givers of such were the only ones who noticed.

Perhaps the stone didn’t even exist, but was just a visual assigned titles and a place to reside. Perhaps it was merely an impression of human emotion and understanding. Perhaps it wasn’t found on the beach and placed on a windowsill, but was instead cut and engraved and placed over a mound of earth freshly patted over the remains of a once-living soul.

The stone wouldn’t know.