I’ve experienced many stories. Confessions made by trembling young boys, shifting their feet through the sandy shore pebbles. Loud booming celebrations, mostly held just as an excuse for people in their late 30’s to act stupid again. Children running around being chased by their mothers and fathers, laughing till the sunsets; because they always manage to cry as soon the moon rises.
Crying, I’ve heard a lot of that in my lifetime as well. And I never was able to understand it. No matter how many I do’s were said, or how many ashes spread into the sea, or how many failed attempts of loved ones coming home were held in solemn silence; I can’t seem to care.
Afterall, I am just a rock, that no one seems to care about either. Sometimes I wonder if all the rocks beside me can hear the same things as I do, and feel the same way; or if it’s just me listening... waiting for the day.
Day? Well the day doesn’t come soon enough I’d say, the day we fade back to dust and eventually fly away. I wouldn’t say it’s the same as dying, rather it’s the beginning.
However, some rocks stay, the special ones that is; the ones with colors and shine; the ones that people pick up to take back home to their mothers; or keep in a collection box, they will never be able to throw away. Those ones stay. But the ones like me, well, we simpletons simply live day by day listening to the stories of all the others— who never seem to value enough the beauty of having a choice to stay.
You see, as a simple rock, I only go wherever the next wave of life pushes me, it would be safe to say i’ve been to a great many of places farther than any watchers can see. However being so, it is not as fanciful as it may seem. Besides, I am no watcher, only a listener, so even if it’s somewhere absolutely wonderful— I couldn’t have a say. As I only listen, to as many stories as I can hear. So when sudden change of the wind and sea decide to ship me away, I guess you can say I am afraid.
Afraid? Well yes, afraid. As silly as it seems for a rock to be with feelings, it is true, that even a rock as cold as me may still feel something. As I can not see, wherever I may soon be, I desperately hope it’s somewhere with plenty of stories around me. Silence is my worst enemy, as it makes a simple rock with no choice but to stay till the next sudden wave, feel so lonely. Colors I cannot see, nor shapes or sizes; only one thing I can surely give the description of is that of a black screen. But if you ask me to describe sounds, well I could tell you a whole tale based off of any sound you sing.
But you don’t seem to be too interested in the fanciful stories of the lives of watchers, otherwise why would you be talking to me? A soon pebble to be.
I suppose I could summarize a brief note of a rocks life to satisfy your glistening eyes. How do I know your eyes glisten? I don’t, I just said it to sound nice. But anyways...
This is the tale of a rocks life, when we are at our youngest, we are our biggest and most impressive. Large boulders that cripple away like everything else with time. The small chips that fall off the large boulder, well that is me, a simple rock tumbling down into the sea. I found myself no longer in a burning heat, but swaying down into the depths of the coldest winter night. That is until, I suddenly hear a whirring noise lift me out of my almost forever home; making me grateful for eternity. For this whirring noise is where I had heard my first story.
A fisherman’s tale, a watcher I soon realized as he described the treacherous loud, booming rumbles that I had heard the night before. “Waves clashed” he started, “reaching higher than any height humans have yet to reach, it was a monstrous dark wave, with eyes starring at you with intent to knock you outta your boots!” he ended. Hearing this, I suddenly formed what the watchers call— an imagination. I could see for the first time, what all those sounds looked like. In my mind only, yes, but it was good enough for a simple rock on the beginning of their journey.
After this, one of the watchers yelled a great roar, “LAND AHOY!” it was repeated by the scurrying thumps that trampled me around the wet floor. Making me learn something else; the feeling of excitement. Joy, was the greeting for the scurrying lads, as I heard high-pitched cries that couldn’t be from any of the sailors I first met. Wailing, nothing like that of the big creatures of the sea, but one much less peaceful. How did I know it was joy? Well, from the statement of feeling I had heard,
“oh how much joy it brings me to see you again!” is what the high-pitched voice stated.
This is the discovery of the third feeling I had heard, the first being my own; afraid. The second being that of restless sailors; tiredness, which conjures mostly of rumbling grumbling noises, and dragging of— what do they call it again... ah yes, feet. And lastly my third being, Joy. At first I couldn’t understand joy, why were they so filled with it? What ignited that feeling of joy? Were questions my young rock self had thought. Soon to be answered, as I was found by one of the small hands that tripped their way up the rickety tossing strange land.
“Look look! Mommy I found a cool rock!” the smallest high-pitched voice had said.
It was at this moment I had felt the urge to announce my sudden joy. But being a rock, all I can do is hope to stay where I wish. I cannot cry like the woman to her lover, to stay with her when she’s afraid. I cannot beg, nor bribe, nothing of anything besides nothing can I do.
So when this tiny hand had picked me up and took me along the story of their sounds, all I tried to do was remember the feeling of joy.
“Dad! Do you like my rock?”
“Whoaho! That’s one fancy lil’rock you got there son! Where’d you find it?”
“On your boat!”
”Oh my well— you know what that means don’t you?” the sailor, that the small voice had called, dad; made a weird sound after these words. It was like that of the booming waves, but instead of being frightening, it was rather joyful and bright. Making the small voice, that the dad had called, son, make his own weird noises. They weren’t booming like the dad’s, but instead it sound like tiny, bubbling pops of joy.
After these weird noises, that I would soon later find out from the watchers, are called laughter; the son would go on to question the dad.
“Nu-uh what does it mean dad?”
“Well there’s a secret that only us sailors know... when you find a rock on a boat that’s returned from the sea, and take it home then place it next to you when you sleep— you can hear all the stories that it’s heard when traveling along it’s long long journey.”
“No way— the rock is alive!?”
”Shhh! shhh son, don’t say it so loud. This is a secret of the sea, and only is shared between us sailors now— so don’t go on tellin’ yer friends.”
“What about momma? Can I tell her?”
”Especially not your momma! She will tell all her friends that secret I told you. So keep it between us two, got it son?”
“Ayyyee Captain dad sir!”
“Good lad!”
This was when I discovered the fourth feeling I have ever met; shock. It was an odd scenario for me when I heard the dad’s words of us rocks telling stories. As it is true, we do, but only to ourselves I believe, and that of the first little hand that lifts us out of the sea. Only us two can enjoy these stories.
Wait— but that cannot be. Long ago had my son lost me at sea, so how is it— that you— you can hear me? Unless you found me, unless I returned home, but how can I— I am no rock anymore, as I crippled to ashes and was blown into the sea.
That noise... it sounds like the whirring noise I had heard when found— “Father... It is me, your son. I thought I’d come visit you again at your favorite spot; the middle of the sea. It’s been 10yrs since you’ve been gone, since you never returned from sea... I hope you can hear me, and I’d like to hear your stories again. Like that one about the rocks. The rocks that collect the hearts of sailors lost, carrying their souls back to the place where they loved most.
I think it’s true, because whenever I come back here, all I can hear is you. Your booming laughter, your heavy fast steps; and your many stories you used to tell me at night.
I miss you dad.”
So this is what it means. I think I understand. Why people would cry, why they would tremble and weep... it is all because in the end, all we are left with is our stories.
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