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The Stone

I am thinking
I am thinking a stone
This stone is here because I have thought it
It is solid because I notice its solidity
Its weight is a weight in my thoughts
Pushing me down into its depths
Where I can see this stone
as it sits
Watching me think it

A question forms between us
And I hear the stone speak:
“Who am I?”
You are me
You are here because I am here
You exist by virtue of me
You are not what you think you are

From darkness: light
In the periphery it originates, timeless
It enchants my thought, forming it like morning dew
Until it bathes the stone, penetrates it through and through
A cascade of creative concrescence
The collapse of the wave function of thought
And it resonates among its unquestioned spaces -
The stone knows none of this, its origin
And yet I hear it ask “Who am I?”
Thinking itself to be a stone

The stone learns to differentiate itself from itself
It sees its granules, its filaments
The hard work of days embedding themselves into pockets of remembrance
Even stones have soft spots

The light weaves as it thinks
The stone sees only darkness

Who indeed?
This is the only question

I am thinking
I am thinking myself
I am thought by myself
I am thought by other than myself
I am here by virtue of myself
I am here by virtue of other than myself
This stone I think, is me
This rocky web is a form of my thoughts
Is the form of my thinking
My thinking is the forming
What is left is only me
And all the others

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