The Artist's fate
The Artist's fate stories

adiasreino "To define is to limit" - Oscar Wilde
Autoplay OFF   •   a year ago
The creation against the creator. The sculpted hunting the sculpter. That is the fate of an artist.

The Artist's fate

Everything was quiet that night. The trees dormant, the sky sleeping, the house silent. No one to be seen in the street, no one to be heard in the home.

But there I was, still as wax, dripping in sweat. For a faint moment one might have even thought I would move to catch that fateful drop of dampness scrolling down my face.

For a faint moment I even thought I might do so. But no; my task was of much bigger importance than a mere leak.

If that drip had not fallen, if my skin was not so humid, perhaps she'd still be alive. Her figure petrified at my sight, could not act. Unfortunately, her voice still could.

When that one single little drop fell from my complection, her roar would have woken up all those around her. Too bad they had expired already.

Oh her screams, oh her shrieks! STOP! It wasn't my fault. I did not ask to be this way, this is your doing, you made me.

With your glances carressing me, your hands sculpting my body, the peace and calm of your mind. That is where I come from, that is where I belong and that is where I will go back to.

Now it is me who sculpts in the quiet of the night. Me who imagines and creates with your parts and your veins.

I am the artist now.

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