Don’t be mistaken. It’s not that the artist didn’t want to try sculpting with the rock. It’s more that the rock was being saved until after the artist was successful so he could make something from it. Something more meaningful than practice. Art, some sort of proper sculpture. So, the unlucky stone next to it was sacrificed instead.

It was picked up and the outline of a simple shape was chipped out once again, this time, a simpler one. Even after the outline was made, the artist — no, the sculptor, did not use more force. Instead, he made an outline of the same shape at several angles and slowly picked at it. An hour passed and a large chunk of the stone fell off, leaving behind a flat side with some powdered rock left on it.

The sculptor’s eyes were red at this point from concentrating on this tedious task. His confidence rose from this small success and sped up. Each strike was a bit faster and a bit stronger. Too strong and fast. The next piece broke off early, leaving behind a rough and jagged side, but it was still intact. It was a lesson for the sculptor as he went to work on the other sides.

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When he was done, in his hands, there was a cube. It was nowhere perfect with one jagged side and the sides were slightly misaligned and crooked. However, it was successful; it was a sculpture, no matter how simplistic it was. It was a sculpture; it was art. The sculptor was still an artist, just one with a new calling. The cube was set down next to the rock and the sculptor’s hand brushed up against the rock; it brushed past the rock. The sculptor moved past the rock, seeking something beyond perfection.

The rock was left with the stone cube next to it. If we throwback to the times when the rock was treated like a hero and the other stones/pebbles his women, then what would this cube be? A disfigured woman? Nay. It was a woman who wore lots of makeup and was uptight. Someone who was too square for the rock’s taste. Not that the rock had a sense of taste.