By Anonymous
The sculptor took a step back, admiring their creation, a beautiful marble statuette. With some final touches, it would certainly turn this work into an elegant masterpiece, admired by hundreds in the years to come. The sculptor sat beside their creation, watching over it with the utmost pride radiating off of them. Visitors from around the world would travel to catch a glimpse of the statuette in person, complimenting the sculptor on their astonishing talents. The sculptor was beyond content like a small child marveling at the Christmas presents under the tree. They were sure this feeling would never wash away.
As the years passed the sculptor grew weary of constantly tending to their statuette, the exhaustion taking a toll on their once cheery demeanor. Once or twice in those excruciating years, the sculptor neglected to care for the statuette, pieces of the marble hardening into near stone. More and more their focus dwindled from their creation, their precious statuette left fading away by her creator. Yet there were no repercussions to this. She slowly became nothing more than an old project, a dusty thought in the back of their mind.
Visitors began to subside as the statuette and sculptor grew in age, chalking it up as a background object rather than the anticipated attraction it once was in life. The sculptor was mightily disgruntled with this shift, looking over at the statuette and wondering when it lost its attraction. Was it the cracks scarred along its once dazzling marble stone? Or the chipped pieces? Or was it how it lost its original smooth feel and instead had been replaced with a harsh, displeasing texture, like nails on a chalkboard? How had this come to be? The sculptor pondered to themselves, exploring the gallery of their mind and the paintings of memories to try and find the answer. They ran their bony, ghostlike fingers over the statuettes' scars. Had they done this? The sculptor could hardly remember. It seemed so natural at the time. How could they have done something like this and not even remember? The guilt in their eyes shimmered upon the decaying statuette, the scars and chips in the stone, the vines and bugs encasing it; it was the sculptor's fault, and they didn’t even know.
Comments
Post a Comment