Watching how I lean toward or away from many things, the pretty sound of birds that are part of a story I've just written in my head, threatening thoughts, part of another story, the comfort of a sitting position. Each of them pushes a button in me, elicits a reaction from a long story I have had. Each movement toward them or away from them defines me in space and time.
The stone does not do that. Through feeling and return to feeling, I am not yet craving for things to be different than they are, different than they are being, different than they will be.
I have sat through dusk tonight. The world has changed in that time. Birds have sung an evening song and gone to bed.
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