pearl

I found a pearl the other day, in the river. If I were less prone to introspection I might have merely taken it home, or even left it there. As it was I lay on the bank and admired it and its erratic beauty--it's nothing like the pearls you buy at stores. It looks sharper, more organic, more unique.

It's formed through pain. Through discomfort, through misfortune, a pearl is born. It is layer upon layer of material secreted because of pain--not necessarily to hide it, or to pretend it isn't there. It's a reaction. It's how the oyster deals with pain.

Yes, the result is beautiful--and maybe that's the point. But that's not why it was made. The oyster cares nothing for beauty, but manages it in the end.