I believe every object can tell a story.
For example, picture a little girl on her polished, violet bike riding on the sidewalk with her mother trailing behind her.
The bike is gleaming with fresh paint and unstained wheels, indicating that it is new. The bike has a striped basket hanging in the front and a cushion on its seat, looking expensive and carefully designed. Her mother wanted to find her the best bike they could find.
Now, imagine her mother. She is beaming but also appears drowsy, perhaps because it is 7 in the morning. Indicating that she chose to sacrifice her time for her daughter so she could ride her bike. Indicating that her daughter is loved.
I have been observing for quite a while of people walking across this sidewalk. I can usually tell what people would say when reading their expressions. Sometimes, I see the same person over and over, who has a different personality each time they walk by.
I am a lone rock living on a fine bed of grass, which is unfortunate when dogs come by. The only companion I have is a lizard I named Skilly, who I learned was blind and refused to speak.
Therefore, I always entertain him with vivid descriptions of the humans that pass by, to make him feel less forlorn.
"Oh my. Remember that man I told you about with the lopsided mustache?" Skilly blinks. "He passed by again. And he's holding a book. Hopefully, it's titled How to Fix Uneven Facial Hair."
Skilly hisses weakly. "You're right, Skilly. I should reserve my judgment for the lady with that pestilent chihuahua. I learned that word the other day from some woman describing her children. Anyway, I hate all dogs, and that one keeps doing its business dangerously close. Did you smell it? Luckily, I can't." There was no response.
Anyway, I've always wondered what humans saw in rocks. Every so often, I imagine myself as a human staring down at a rock like me. I would find myself very fascinating — a single object that contains valuable bits, a single object that had experienced famous horrors in history, a single object that had seen all kinds of weather and life and death. A single object who is immensely knowledgeable in human expressions.
Every object, including a simple rock, can tell a story. But do humans see the same?
***
I've always called him Hector in my mind, just as he calls me Skilly. Even if I could speak, I couldn't tell him my real name, because I have no clue.
Hector can be foolish sometimes, I'll say. He believes he can read minds, though he can never read mine. I am not hopeless or forlorn like he thinks I am. At first, I stayed because I pitied him, but I would much rather think of him as a friend.
Hector growls at a chihuahua roaming around the grass.
I open my mouth, flicking my tongue. I hate that guy. It tried to bite me.
"Sorry Skilly. I can't help it every time it comes near me." I want to roll my eyes.
However, he is right for one thing.
Every object can tell a story, whether it could speak or not.
And so I observe a man's gold watch flashing under a lampost. He was admiring it more than he checked the time. I notice how everyone looked at him like he was a nuisance; they were probably used to him by now. I observe a hat too big on a teenager's head, which did not match the style of her grey pants or navy blue cardigan. Perhaps it was her mother's.
I observed Hector, as he had observed others. I began to stare at the rock that couldn't move, couldn't be understood, couldn't grow legs and run free. He is very filthy and old-looking. I can imagine him as a human — all gray and prickly with a stiff hand holding a cane. There are no other rocks nearby, which implies he is lonely. Implying he is miserable. He was miserable for a long, long time.
Every object can tell a story.
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