I stare at the wrinkles etched into the palm of my hands. They weren't a sign of age; they were unspoken paths that showed my future. My life has been set in stone, and no matter how much I wished for the erosion of my deepest lines, I can't erase the paths I've already walked. Not even Myron could carve me a bronze future. Maybe if I was made of ivory then I'd be worthy enough to be sculpted by Phidias, but I am nothing more than limestone—made from the broken bones of forgotten sea creatures. If Polyclitus was still alive, would he cower in fear from my imperfections? I am nowhere near the balance he seeked to achieve. And would Praxiteles be moved by the deep sadness in my features? Would he carve me just to capture my pain and make it eternal? Lysippus would never even glance in my direction; there is nothing natural about the way I present myself. He would have had better luck with a bird and its bent wing.
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efflorescence
Poetry[efflorescence] the action or process of developing and unfolding as if coming into flower - a collection of wilting thoughts
