Clay Stone sits alone in an ocean of sand, the dry heat of the Californian sun beating harshly upon his exterior bakes him. The third quarter of the year is the worst for him, unable to move, Clay endures temperatures upwards of a hundred degrees, with the nights radiating at a constant 90. Clay was built to withstand the grating existence of the desert, but without the ability to sweat, each day feels long and grueling. He never gets used to the climate, not even after all this time, after having felt the hellish pain of life among the dunes for millennia. Once the heat begins to cool down, Clay faces a new challenge: dust storms. The winds pick up, flinging the sand beneath him in every direction, tearing through everything in its path. Deafblind to the world around him, Clay must rely on the feeling of the wind’s acceleration to know when the next typhoon of sand was to make its appearance.

Another storm is soon to come. Clay thought to himself one fall afternoon. I can feel the pebbles beneath me desperately trying to evade the wind; I can feel that their thoughts are the same as mine, praying to find some sort of peace. Clay prepares himself to feel the small chips, left from the sand, crashing into him. Each one more excruciating than the last, and just like the heat of the summer, he will never get used to it. All Clay can do is try to think of happier times.

He tends to recall the couple billion years where he stood taller than the highest dunes of the desert that surrounded him. The feel of the cooler winds of the sky overshadows the real pains of sand smacking into his exterior at twenty-five miles per hour. He felt trees grow deep within him, their roots clutching onto him in an effort to not fall from such a great height. The birds, he caught himself thinking, I miss the feeling of their beaks tickling me as they collected pests off my skin. Nothing in particular ended the peace he once felt. The world ate away at him, just as the birds ate away at his bugs. The years of erosion blended in his mind, but with each new form came a new kind of pain. Even at his mightiest, the rivers that flowed down his slopes severed him slowly like a dull blade. I felt it each time. Each dramatic transformation occurred over millions of years, breaking me apart mercilessly, never ending pain. Clay exists in the desert now, another unremarkable accent to the environment that surrounds him, but he hopes the other parts of himself reside happily in other corners of the vast world. Yet, even Clay does not know what happens to the rest of that once herculean self. Do they also have consciousness? Are all of them me, and I them? Am I truly myself after all I have been through? Clay finds himself pondering these topics day after day, trying to search for meaning as to why his creator would give him life only to tear him down again and again. No, life isn’t right. I’m not alive because I cannot die. When I am done in this form I will become the sand, probably enduring more pain as I am flown into the next object, just as I am now.  All Clay ever wanted was to die, and end the eternal suffering of being a rock.