This is an entry for a contest found here
The challenge is to write from an objects point of view.
I've been told, time and time again that life is not fair. The same sentence has been most often shouted at me, as if something such as myself is capable of returning any feeling whatsoever. It has been whispered, choked out, gurgled, even said evenly as if the one saying it has given up entirely. Sometimes the sentece isn't said but merely expressed. Through grimaces, empty looks, keens, snarls, hysteric laughter… Indeed, as a witness of such a thing I am far older than I seem on the outside.
I've always liked to observe them, them who come here. Their body language. They're as abstract to me as I am to them; for I am the symbol of their pain and pain is abstract. I don't understand their grievances or joy; I do not feel such things. But there is something captivating in the way they move. When they come in groups they are more unsure of themselves, either looking directly at me as if to make sure I am real, or never looking at me, still in denial. If they are alone, that's when something breaks in them completely. They lay against me or caress the newly made cracks in my body, painted gold in a mockery of kintsukuroi, worshipping them, probably wishing their heart would stick together like the pottery fixed with gold. Sometimes the small ones throw things at me, not yet able to control their actions.
I'm not like them, but the years are long and I learned a lot from just watching. Soon, after I've been uprooted from my previous position, reworked and covered in layers of protection , I started counting things I like most about these fleeting creatures. Sometimes the simple things they do warm me up like the early spring sun. The picnics on the patch of grass near me, buzzing with energy. The one that comes here to meditate for hours upon hours and even takes time to explain what he has been doing, although, I do not think he talks to me. The flowers they bring and the small lights that flicker in the nights too.
Even if nature hasn't been kind, making me crumble and lose height, I wouldn't change places with my brethren hiding under trees or the ones lost in water. I will be the appointed observer of this small part of mine throughout ages to come, silently carrying the burden that is put upon me.
Want to guess who the observer is?
