MargenThe stone doesn't choose to be round: the river teaches it through years of never listening to it.
At first it had edges, its own way of cutting the water, a firm opinion on how the current ought to pass.
The river didn't argue. It simply kept going by, stubborn, meek, endless, with the doggedness of what is in no hurry because it has time.
A century later the stone is smooth. It fits in a hand. It has lost all its corners and with them the exact way of hurting itself against the world.
They say that's wisdom. I don't know if it's that or just exhaustion with a good press office.
But I lift it from the riverbed, keep it warm in my pocket, and I think of all I had to lose to begin, at last, to fit somewhere.