Enough about the stone cube and back to the sculptor and why he passed off on using the rock. Not that I’m complaining nor is the rock, not that it could anyways. The rock becoming something other than a rock would be interesting, but it would get old quickly. A sculpture especially so. Either collecting dust on some shelf or put on display for people to look at for years on end. The latter being somewhat familiar.

Remember how I mentioned that the rock was perfect due its size? If the rock’s size is perfection, then the boulder behind it is beyond perfection. The sculptor was drawn to it like a moth to a flame. Except, this was less exciting as with an actual moth you’d get to watch it burn. The only thing burning here was the sculptor’s ambition. He wanted to make another sculpture; this time with this large boulder.

Misassumptions flooded his head as he stepped into the water. He innocently thought that using a larger stone would make the task easier and allow for more force to be used. Unfortunately, after striking the boulder, a large part of it fell away, making it more rough and jagged. Yet, it still had some charm to it, like a thorny rose. The sculptor backed away but never removed his eyes from the boulder. He tried to once again hit it, this time much gentler. It worked, he was able to dig into the boulder without damaging it too much.

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However, there was an issue. Night had fallen and this boulder was in the river. The water maintained its temperature and kept somewhat warm. Nonetheless, the hapless sculptor’s body warmth was rapidly sapped from being wet. The paint that spilled on him earlier had dried and made his movement slightly more difficult. The water crawled up his pant legs, sapping his strength. It seemed like the world itself had turned against him. A punishment for pursuing something beyond perfection or some bullcrap like that. The point is that the current conditions weren’t good for the sculptor so he had to stop. His passion burnt out, replaced by coldness and emptiness.