Just a simple post. A stone in a faraway place.

I said I would be writing on this every day. Yes, I write every day… but these daily writings are for larger projects. Moving on.

A rock sits upon a hill. Behind it and for miles there stretches nothing but grass. Green grass that is darkened by the shadowed chocolate earth that fills the gaps between blades, and almost completely tinged of orange beneath a blazing star. Had there been a human, or a cat perhaps, to stand at this place where there sits the rock, it would look out over the endless field of green, orange-lit grass and believe that it goes on forever in a uniform pattern. Had whatever being which saw this view of the grass looked in that same direction to the horizon, its eyes would behold a blazing fury of red-yellow light. White light if the eye touched what was being thrown out of the centre of this great ball, but mostly orange nonetheless. This giant body, this star, this celestial fireball rested at the horizon, and let over the edge maybe 30% of its total size. All other bits of the sky which were not filled with these rays of fire, so far away, were black as the stone beneath our current perspective.

This grass, of course, is not as you and I would know it. This Star is not the Sun, and nothing here is as we might suppose it. The grass, if touched, would break like crystal and sting ones skin with a burning itch. Things too small to comprehend would attach to the bone and, were it not for the 4,000 degree atmosphere that flooded the land, the flesh of this animal would soon see the orange tinge fall upon the tiny green barbs rising from its wounds.

Away from the light, away from the never-ending field of black, and green, and orange, there sat the rock. Of course, one side of it shone a bright orange, and inside this tip which pointed to the ball of fury, the bits which comprised the bits of the rock shook about vigorously. Were not the stone so smooth, and this fire so routine, a nearby mind may consider the rock exploding as being a very real possibility.

Behind this orange part of the stone, which shined from the inside, was the middle bit of rock which was black, but it too was lit from within by a fury of activity. Behind that still sat the other tip of our human kidney-shaped rock, and its blackness was as black as the most fundamental piece of blackness that alone could be argued to constitute absolute blackness. In this direction, the direction of the black side of our stone, there was no field. Beneath this end of the stone was the chocolate-coloured soil which, grass free, measured the length of this half of the stone: four inches. After these inches there was a drop. There was a drop which fell straight down. Had there been a neck to bend down and peer at this precipice, the associated head, and mind, would notice that it continues downward and out of the sight of the perspective; the drop doubles back in, underneath the observer. The free-fall, considering gravity as we know it, would not last a sufficient amount of time to explain a phenomenon which seems to suggest this planet is split in two.

At that moment. At that thought. There could have been heard, upon that hill, a terrible crack, and the stone leap’d from its perch and tumbled over the edge. Smoke slowly rose from a position where the rock had been. Tiny bits of the stone which remained, began to glow orange.

Somewhere terribly, terribly far away; some time terribly distant into the further stages of this changing Universe, for some unified reason that nothing, not even that stone knows, that stone collides with a being like a human, like a cat, like a stone itself, and it will deal a killing blow. The stone, which ventured on a 4,xxx,xxx,xxx light year journey, remembered nothing from its trip but the ascension from the ground, the brief fall from the edge, seeing the underside of a great structure, falling back toward this new façade. The stone remembers, before striking the surface, moving instead in the direction parallel to this wall which sloped as it fell. The stone then fell at this giant hot ball, this star, but this falling-at, again, turned into falling-around. Nothing was remembered after that. Nothing except striking a solid body again. For a moment, and on only a tiny, tiny bit of the stone, before it smashed to a trillion smaller versions, it shone orange again.

About Ossington

I often think but seldom share these thoughts. And if the product of my thinking is to affect anything but my own sense of satisfaction, then surely it must be shared. Here you may try to know what I believe to know.
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