there was a dream i had. in this dream, all sentient beings of the world were rocks and the wholeness that is was the polisher in which they jounced, in which they bounced, in which they often collided.
the rocks, if rocks could think, would probably say the world was a harmful, hurtful, utterly lost and cruel place, wouldn’t they? but all rocks come out of the polisher as gems, don’t they?