Sometimes when I walk I’ll pick up rock and roll it around in my hand to alleviate anxiety. Today I grabbed a particularly dull rock: poop brown, no texture, swirls, chips–no character at all. And I rolled it in my hands as I walked home. As I went I started thinking about where the over-sized mineral might have come from. I thought of the giant rock upon which we dwell, cooling from its molten state, and realized my dull-as-dirt rock was here before me. Then I felt sad because this, like all other rocks must wait and slowly wear away in the midst of a paradise they cannot see, hear, or take any pleasure in. So I smashed the stone into the concrete beneath me as hard as I could, and it shattered and flew apart, landing in the yard and street beside me. And though it was no matter to the rock, I took perhaps too great a pleasure in destroying something ancient and strong.

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