I am a rock.

That’s it. No metaphor, no symbolism. Just a plain grey rock, with few scratches here and there. 

I will not bother you with the process of how I came in this house, as I do not remember myself. Out of thin air, I seem to have been a resident of the house of Mr. Travis, a hard-working theatre director, producer and scriptwriter.

This is a very small house. I live on a hanging bookshelf of yellowish books right above Mr. Travis’ study table, so when he looks up, I’m always in sight. His room consists of a big bed with a floral blanket and pillows, a big cupboard which is half-stacked with clothes and documents and a few drawers that I never saw him open. That was it. Oh, and next to me, stood a small picture frame of Mr. Travis’ family: him, his wife, Mrs. Marion and their fluffy poodle, Ms. Rosewood.

Ms. Rosewood is a pleasant dog. I enjoy her company. She also has a nice smile. She doesn’t notice me because of the height but she brings a smile to Mr. Travis every time she enters the room, no matter of what she does. Before, when Mr. Travis was more successful, they’d have nights where they’d experiment with wigs and goof around in front of the mirror. If Mr. Travis had more time, he’d act out some of his plays in front of her, to which she’d clap her paws regardless of how bizarre it would be. It was a good time.

Though I cannot remember when the last time was that happened. I also cannot remember when the last time Mr. Travis had a proper meal or even drank a glass of water. I do remember Mrs. Marion yelling at him and slamming the door behind him, though I do not remember when or about what. Ever since then I have not seen her, or Ms. Rosewood ever enter the room.  

I don’t think they live here anymore.

As more dust piled on the brim of the photo frame, Mr. Travis continued to stay at his desk and stare at his notebooks. Sometimes, with his glasses on, on the laptop or at his phone. Sometimes he’d pace around the room, rummage through the documents. Sometimes he’d leave the room and not be back for hours, sometimes days. Other times, however, he’d stay in bed. Hours would pass but he’d remain in bed, blanket till his chin and blink and turn and blink and turn. The days where he would sleep would leave me surprised.

From what I have gathered as a permanent resident of the hanging bookshelf, his plays have received a lot of backlashes. A lot of problems seemed to be piled upon the cast members due to his mistakes and the advertisement department aren’t doing their jobs properly… or something along the lines. There were too many problems- problems that I did not understand or know little of.

On a random night, Mr. Travis sat on the floor. I stare at him; every time he gets home, he usually takes off his coat and sat in front of the table and do some scribbling. He didn’t even take off his coat- instead he sat on the tiled floor, crossed his legs and stared at the cupboard in front of him, spaced out.

Moonlight pours through the windows and onto the spilt documents and bottles of pen ink. He gazes at the sight with such a wistful look; I wonder if he was in a daze.

Just then, something glistens on his face. A teardrop. It streams down his left cheek, and he blinks. More teardrops stream down his cheeks and underlining the sides of his nose. Slowly, he curls into a ball, and his body trembles as I hear a sob.

Never have I ever have seen Mr. Travis cry. The only expressions that I’ve seen on him are smiles, slight annoyance and nothing at all.

It is fascinating how humans cry, laugh or yell, all in different emotions. How they feel and move and travel and experience and have memories. I wouldn’t know. I am a rock. A stone. Who cannot move unless moved nor do I have any memories. I wonder how intriguing it would be to experience emotions. Would I smile as cheerfully as Rosewood? Would I yell as ferociously as Mrs. Marion? Would I cry as heartbreakingly as Mr. Travis?

Minutes pass and Mr. Travis stops shuddering. I assume that humans feel cold and hot, except looking outside does not help in my understanding whether is it hot or cold during the nighttime. Regardless, he gets up, takes off his coat and puts it on a hanger behind the door. Taking his maroon handkerchief from his pocket, he blows his nose which alarms me, as it is the loudest noise I have heard in the house from a long time. Apparently, it startled him as well, because he begins to laugh. Not a chuckle but a roaring laughter. Just by blowing his nose.

I wonder what causes humans to laugh.

Silence gradually falls as his laugh dies down and he sits down at his desk. He opened a new notebook, and he writes. He writes even more than he usually does. He opens his laptop. He types. He types even more than he usually does.

This goes on every night. He comes to his room and he sits down and he writes. His bed has remained unused for the time being.

One night, he pauses, and he looks straight at me. He smiles genuinely, the same smile that etches on his face when a… dog used to come around. I can’t remember what the dog was called but I do remember it was a very lively dog.

“Do you know why I’m working so hard?” he asks me.

I do not. I am a rock.

“It’s because I want to take Marion to the southern beaches. You know, the one with the heavy entrance fees and nice views and nice coconuts and nice-looking sand and surfs and waves and surfing boards and…”

I do not. I am a rock.

He places his chin on his hand and glances at the photo frame. “When one of my plays first became a hit, it gave me lots of money. I don’t remember the procedure, but I do remember I went to a beach in the southern part of this country. There, I found peace. There, I found inspiration.  There, I met an injured Rosewood. There,”- he points his ballpen at me-  “I found you.”