The Life Of The Thinker
There he is, The Thinker, still pondering whatever it may be. I remember when I first saw him all those years ago, with his long, golden hair and his youthful skin, radiant as a thousand suns.
"What is it you think of?" I asked. "Do you dream of the fair princess, with her rose quartz skin and opal eyes? Do you wish to be a gladiator, honour but a sword length away? Or do you yearn to be a charioteer, reigning in your black and white horses?"
He didn't reply, but continued to think.
I spread word of the man and all wanted to see. We wanted to help him find his answer. So we climbed up the pillars, the frame and the wall, and stood beside him, offering encouragement.
Day after day we stood by. Week after week we tried to help. But all to no avail. Some started to leave, "He'll never answer," they said. Some pointed and laughed, mocking The Thinker, but I believed in him. "You can do it," I said.
Then one day, he said to me, "I'll travel the world and love – share with them what you shared with me." But as he tried to stand, he found that he couldn't. His limbs, his torso, his head, all cast in bronze, set like stone for eternity.
And so he sits and thinks about the life he could've had – a wife, a child, a giving heart – wishing his body were as supple as his mind.