I am born. Perhaps hewn is more apropos. Hewn from the beautiful marble of creation. As such, I am perfect. Glistening white, with vast swathes of black and gray, I am beautiful. The Sculptor, the one who had just rent me from the mountain of marble in Paradise, looks at me, and I see that He is very pleased. His gaze is loving, and my only desire is for those eyes.
As He sets me gently onto a bed of soft Earth, His eyes behold me, as if for the last time. Those eyes are deep, as if they contain all of the wonder of the Universe in them, which, of course, they do. And now, as they pour over my every feature, they are sad. Sad, and filled with the knowledge of a thousand generations.
And the moment I feel the cool ground touch my base, those pools of wonder, those endless tomes of knowledge, are gone. Obscured, by some unknown fog, terrifying, foreign, yet intoxicating, and somehow familiar. As I search in the fog, I find it difficult to remember what it is I’m searching for.
The only clue inside myself is a need to be seen, a need to be known, and a fear that I am alone.