And you sit there on your throne, with your memorials, celebrating the murders, celebrating the murderers, celebrating those who were murdered, wanting, wishing, wondering if we’ll get the message, that war is indeed fathomable but your ego is too big, too strong, too self-aware, too single-minded to stop it or to listen to those who want, wish, wonder if you’ll ever stop, if you’ll ever listen to us.

And I sit here on my own throne, with my own memorials, a victim, a perpetrator, a critic, a skeptic, a bully, a girl, a boy, a queen, a king, a peasant, loving and loathing my memories, how I’ve created my own monuments, carved the names of my friends and families and most of all my enemies (whose names and deeds shall never be forgotten) and wanting, wishing, wondering if these memories are mine, if they are true, if they aren’t too clouded, too subjective, too dependent on my understanding of what life was.

And we sit here on our own thrones, with our own memorials, heroes in our heads, masters in our minds, safe inside, free from cold, free from heat, with things that were considered magic thousands, hundreds, dozens of years ago but here they are now, within our reach, our basic needs satiated but we still want more, wish more, wonder if we could stop wars, if we could stop famine, if we could stop disease, if we could stop speaking for others, if we could stop projecting, if we could do more than just being intrigued, tickled pink and red and blue with this desire for peace, as we type this on our hundred-or-thousand-dollar laptop in our bed in our apartment, as we click publish and move on to puppies and porn and recipes and recreation and crochet and cats and technology and the latest celebrity tweets.


For the Weekly Writing Challenge prompt (Threes). I decided to challenge myself further and write in three long sentences. I chose this series of photos.

17 thoughts on “stone

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