The Rock Collector

Autobiographical, perhaps.

A little boy in a dirty shirt skipped down a forest path, whistling a tune. He enjoyed the breeze that blew against his face, and he admired the flowers that grew along the trail. The trees arched overhead, providing shade from the sunlight that streamed in between the branches. He heard the birds chirping along with his whistling, and the critters skittering in the bushes. But most of all, he loved seeing the rocks that were scattered through the forest path. They were each unique, with fascinating shapes. Some glittered and glinted in the light, some hid worms and bugs underneath, and each was a new discovery to be made.

The boy spotted a new rock. A rough, red rock, about the size of his palm. He stopped to admire it. It was a lovely round shape. He thought for a moment about how much he liked the rock. It would look beautiful in his bedroom; proof he was in this special place. He couldn’t resist. He picked up the rock, cradling it in his hands. Excitedly, he continued down the forest path, skipping and whistling. He enjoyed the smell of honeysuckle on the air as he gripped his new treasure.

Then the boy spotted another rock. One much different to the first. Black, sleek, and shiny. It had jagged points. Perhaps it held crystals inside, or other such wonders. He stopped, bending over to admire it. It was so special, and so different to his first rock. They would make quite the pair. He carefully extracted the rock. It was heavy, but the weight felt good in his hands. It made a fine trophy from this trip through the forest. A rock in each hand, he skipped down the forest path, a bit slower this time. His two rocks balanced at each of his sides, he would tap them together and enjoy the music they made.

Then the boy spotted another rock. This one looked like the first rock. Red, and round. He stopped and looked. Why would he take that first rock, but not this one? They are not so different. They seemed to belong together. He collected the rock, holding it against his chest. He continued skipping down the forest path. He felt unbalanced. He had the one black rock in one hand, and the two red rocks pulled against his chest with the other. He had a concerning thought; what if he never found a matching black rock? He skipped, slowly, down the trail, scanning for a black rock.

Then the boy spotted another rock. A beautiful green rock, with facets that glinted in the light. It was so much more beautiful than all the rocks he had collected so far. He stopped short, and hastily grabbed the new rock. He continued walking down the forest path, his mind spinning. He would need a proper shelf for all of these rocks. In his mind, he measured the wood and counted the tools he would need. Each rock needed a proper home and a place to sit.

Then the boy spotted another rock. Black, sleek, and shiny. He excitedly picked it up, looking closely. It had shimmering facets just like the green rock had. Was this a matching pair for the black rock? Or the green rock? The lack of symmetry clouded his mind. He walked forward. He would need a system to catalog all of these rocks. The black ones belonged next to the black ones, but the shimmering ones belonged next to the shimmering ones, but the round ones belonged next to the round ones. And there were so many types of rocks he did not have yet.

Then the boy spotted another rock. And another one. And another one. He clutched the hoard to his chest, stuffed them in his pockets, and wrapped them in his shirt. He no longer heard the song of the birds in the trees, or felt the breeze on his face. He did not notice the flowers growing alongside the path, or saw how the sunlight streamed through the branches. He trudged forward, obsessing over the rocks, growing more disappointed with each than the last. The collection grew unbearably heavy. His feet could hardly move, and his arms shook. He tried to shut out the weight, focusing instead on his plans. The shelves he needed to build. The catalog he needed to design. He needed to take pictures of each rock, and give each one names, and write labels for every place. He would need lights to be able to see them, and little brushes to keep them clean, and people would have to come over and see them, and —

He dropped all of the rocks. They went spilling out from his shirt and his pockets and his hands, clattering across the path. He stood, frozen. At first, he was horrified. He imagined coming home empty-handed, and winced at the thought. But then, he felt the lightness of not carrying rocks. His arms were relieved. He looked up, and smiled at the sun streaming through the branches. He felt the breeze, and noticed the lovely flowers growing all around. He took a deep breath, and stepped over the pile of rocks. He skipped again, whistling a tune, happy to be in such a lovely place.

The boy spotted a new rock.

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