Sometimes I feel like a jagged rock in a raging river; like an obtuse protuberance that rapids thrash against. As if I am surrounded by tremendous violence that it is battering me.
Slowly, the currents erode my incongruous edges and smooth me out. I become more accustomed to the forces around me, yet I am still worn by them.
Slower still, the waters wash more and more particles off of me and leech my minerals away until, finally, I am no longer that jagged rock or that smooth pebble. I am no longer fighting the current, nor am I slowly worn down by it. All of me is now become the waters.
I realize that it was only my resistance that created violence; only my narrow, desperate grasp on self that saw a battle. Separation tore me apart. Separation into definitions, into categories of self and other, rock and river, calm and fierce, peace and violence, good and bad. This realization required only a change in perspective. A change that perhaps could have been made earlier, but that, regardless, was inevitable.