Stones

I was sitting here and wondering and wandering and stumbling when I fell into this drum labelled introspection. There was this poem I wrote, a long time back. Something about how stones on the road aren't loved, because no one needs to love them. And I was thinking. And twirling my hair around my index finger. And twisting my index finger around my hair. How the fuck do you graduate from being a stone to being a plant? Or a dog or a pair of sandals or you know, if you really want to over-reach, a human.
In the end, which was like ten seconds ago, and hasn't quite really become the end, I figured you're just you. You know. Then you're a stone for me. A parakeet for someone else. A broomstick for some other guy. You can't help it. Because you're nothing basically, outside your own self. And then there's people who know that. For whom you are you. And then you are a human. Which is kind of good. Because the whole chain of reasoning maintains that humans are nothing, but humans. The last sentence deserves to be read one more time. Please.
Whatever way. Don't think I am very human yet. Still some earth left in me. Here and there. And everywhere. So yea. I am still having a bummer of a time working through my project. Yesterday we went for a job-treat a couple of my friends threw. Whoooo! And the winner is - Haryali Kabab! Nah, its the Gosht Husaini Handi. Of course, we robbed the poor bastards. Whooooo!
Well, since this blog is in itself an act of self-promotion. Here's the poem I was talking about. Comment if you want to. Nobody hates comments you know. Anonymous, synonymous. Whatever.
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The whistles of a stone

* Text removed by author *

PS: This poem was first published in M.A.G. (Muse Apprentice Guild), so don't copy it. Or not me, but they will sue you. And they have shitloads of money to waste you know.