I am not what you dreamed me to be, what you feared or what you hoped or what you thought must come to be. I was always something more, something less, and something ill-considered and all but lost and never free. Each pebble has a story, each pebble its very own tale, each pebble was a mountain, worn down by time and touch and every dreaming sea.
I was ever changing, ever moving, ever becoming something else, driven by hope and circumstance to be what I needed to be.
I was ever erratic, mutable and cast by stone and sand and sea. Of me there was only so much to see, of me there were dreams beyond the me.
And yet, from me to sea, from sand to moon to dream, I am but the pebble, caught in the gasp of your unexpected scrutiny.
Each pebble has its story, a gift, perhaps, to you from me.
Of all the things I wanted, of dreams and hopes foreseen, the only thing I hoped for, was the pebble given to be kept, perhaps to set me free.
Each pebble has a story, its shadow casts a dream, and in that musing hiding lies the mountain that once was me.