nov 26, 2020
Can you imagine what life would be like as a statue,
Created in the image of somebody else, your marble hide identical to another?
Placed on a pedestal for others to gaze upon,
Forever looking down on them, never on their level.
If to err is human, then a statue is a facsimile individual,
An effigy of a person, but without the human quality of imperfection.
At any time, the sculptor could carve away your marmoreal skin and shape you as they see fit.
You are only as much as their vision, you can be altered by any trend.
Statues have perpetually impenetrable skin, unchanging through the years.
Their eyes will always be bare of tenderness, their skin never telling how long they have existed.
Statues emerge from the past looking exactly like they did thousands of years before,
But they emerge without color, a greyscale shade of history.
Be thankful that you are free to move through the world,
To escape from an alabaster podium.
To let life carve marks on your epidermis, reminding you of where you have been.
To be an individual, incomparable to any other entity in this galaxy.
Why anyone would want to be a statue,
Is beyond me.
