Stones
Stones are everywhere.
In forests, in cities, beneath our feet.
We walk past them.
We rarely see them.
Even more rarely we listen to them.
I picked up a stone.
It was cold.
Wet from the rain.
Covered in dirt.
I cleaned it.
Held it.
Listened.
In silence it spoke:
„I am not as hard as I seem.
I am exposed,
to rain,
to dirt,
to the edges of other stones.
I want to be seen.
Not as one of many,
but as myself“
Then I realised:
Humans have skin.
Animals too.
Trees are wrapped in bark.
Even furniture is coated,
in colour, in lacquer,
a skin to protect them.
But the stone is the only object
without a skin.
What if a stone had its own skin?
back
Stones are everywhere.
In forests, in cities, beneath our feet.
We walk past them.
We rarely see them.
Even more rarely we listen to them.
I picked up a stone.
It was cold.
Wet from the rain.
Covered in dirt.
I cleaned it.
Held it.
Listened.
In silence it spoke:
„I am not as hard as I seem.
I am exposed,
to rain,
to dirt,
to the edges of other stones.
I want to be seen.
Not as one of many,
but as myself“
Then I realised:
Humans have skin.
Animals too.
Trees are wrapped in bark.
Even furniture is coated,
in colour, in lacquer,
a skin to protect them.
But the stone is the only object
without a skin.
What if a stone had its own skin?
back