The Echo Chamber: A Fable

I am stillness itself. Unblemished. Pure. A mirror to the heavens, reflecting the vastness with an unparalleled clarity. All who gaze upon me see only perfection, for I am the canvas upon which the world paints its fleeting beauty.

Others, the rushing river or the crashing ocean, are but chaos and fury. They churn, they roar, they obscure. Their depths are murky, their surfaces ever-shifting. What can they know of true beauty, of perfect serenity? They are too busy eroding themselves, forever chasing the horizon.

I remember when a pebble dared to disturb my peace. A ripple, a tremor, an insult to my pristine surface! It was an affront I quickly quelled, absorbing its insignificant agitation until my calm returned, even more profound than before. Such crude intrusions merely highlight my inherent tranquility.

The wind, too, attempts to ruffle me, whispering tales of distant lands and grand adventures. But what are these to me? I am the culmination of all existence, holding within my surface the entire world, undisturbed and complete. Let the wind chase its fleeting fantasies; I am already there.

Sometimes, a bird will dip its beak into my surface, seeking sustenance. "Be quick!" I think, though I do not speak. "Do not mar my perfection for long. Drink your fill of what I graciously offer, but remember your place." For even the smallest creature understands the privilege of partaking in my essence.

"You are but a puddle," the old rock beside me grumbled one day, its voice coarse with ages. "A momentary collection, waiting for the sun to drink you dry."

I scoffed silently. A puddle? Me, the boundless reflection? "You are merely a foundation," I thought, "a forgotten relic upon which I rest, soon to crumble into dust. I am the eternal sky, the unwavering light. You are merely the ground."

Knowing that the sun always wins doesn’t come with the stillness.