Me? What’s there to tell about me? I’m an observer. I catalog the ripples, not create them. Oh, the beautiful ripples.
A pond of skipping stones, people on their merry paths. Every skip an action, be it rational or irrational folly. From the heart of each deed radiate the ripples. Ripples are far more graceful than splashes, influencing but never imposing.
The consequences ripple, can’t you see? Undulating, shining, passing you and me, miles and acres, hours and years and then disappear o’er the horizon.
That’s just one stone and its lonely ripples. The magic is when stones make brief acquaintance. Time slows down or maybe it just feels that way. The air between courting stones exudes a peculiar charge, the strength and comforting friction of a connection. Some stones meet at crossroads, just passing through. Some stones fly alongside. Seconds tick by, sometimes decades. Who can say where our closest ones will come from and when they will go?
But what’s so great about stones? True, some are shiny, some are smooth. Some skip fast, some sail long. All drown. I catalog the ripples, not the stones.
Oh, the beautiful ripples. Each wave has its own quirk, takes its own time. Oh where the ripples meet, reality itself folds with a silent splash. I bear witness the birthplace and battleground of meaning.
I only observe. I catalog the ripples, the beautiful ripples. For now.