The Sponge

None of us understands our story better than this nonentity, unconscious slip of nature, nonetheless our common parent dilating at the bottom of the sea. The parent, too, of octopus and pony, of reefs and villages, once it was strange simply for being not a rock itself— not rock, but a blank sleep on a rock shelf. And, deeply sympathetic to the rock, to sea and sea-dust washing through its skin, it knows, although it doesn’t know it knows, that minds and their milieux are all one thing. Some see its way of thinking; most, not yet. Still, one day, just by living, all will find reason enough within themselves to think the single thought forever in its mind.