“I wish to believe in immortality-I wish to live with you forever.”
― John Keats
He passes by the statue everyday. The pale marble skin, the rose painted lips, the glassy eyes, the frozen tutu... she remains crystallized among the marketplace, unaffected by the changing humanity around her. People have grown accustomed to her presence. No one stops for a sight of her her now. She stands there, one arm outstretched by her side and one arm held out in front of her, as if inviting some invisible person to dance with her. Her dance will forever be incomplete, with one leg raised behind her, the other èn pointè, torso leaning forward in a frozen arabesque. She was beautiful, but years have dulled her looks, the marble graying with soot from the factory, the lips have faded, eyes stopped glistening, gems have been picked out of her bodice by thieving hands, a finger is missing on the side stretched arm, the result of a child with a careless stone, but, to him, she remains beautiful in all her imperfect glory.
He pauses to look at the life-sized statue of the marble ballerina each time he passes by on the way to the factory. Wide eyes trail over her lithe frame, a small smile curves the plump lips, red from the wintry chill, and he greets her in a wordless "morning", perhaps the only person ever to do so. It is more probable that he does it because he has no one to wish every morning and the statue looks at him with dull eyes that seem to say, "I know what it's like to be misused." He sees old men spit at her feet, children aim pebbles, making a sport of who can hit the diadem atop her head, women gossip at her base– but no one stops to admire her, mostly because the sooty marble filled with stains isn't aesthetically appealing anymore.
To him, she's more than just a centerpiece that has waned in appearance. She is being by her own rights; the smooth curve of her checks, the long tapering fingers the inexplicable sadness in her eyes and smile– she becomes more humane than any human he knows, certainly more than those who he works for.
He feels a a strange attraction towards her, one so powerful that he stumbles over to her, inebriated, depressed, and he sits on her pedestal, crying into his knees, the salty tears stinging the gash on his left cheek. He is ashamed of himself, his weakness, his submission and his inability to have retaliated when they landed the blows on him a while ago. He looks up, the statue looks straight ahead. He raises himself onto the pedestal and slowly meets the blue, glass, irises. He trails a finger over the jagged ends of the broken finger before closing his palm over hers. She is cold to the touch, but warmer than the machines he uses everyday.
The moonshine creates a dull glow in the marble. She awakens to life, wrapping her arms around his shoulder, burying her head into the crook of his neck, she is soft, delicate, smelling of the lily that is tucked behind her ear. She lifts her eyes to look at him, wiping away the drying tears and caking blood from his cheeks. He leans forward– the vision breaks with harsh calls of "thief" behind him. Two burly officers of the law lift him off of the pedestal as he thrashes in protest. Slurred tones in protests of innocence fade into the distance as he is dragged away. The marble girl silently screams in his defense– her cries remain unheard.
She stands as use always has, scanning the crown of uninterested people in hopes for the lone pair of eyes that have met hers on purpose. The beautiful doe eyes, tinged with pain and loneliness and yet a sense of comfort that seem to tell her, "I know what it's like to be forgotten." She longs for the only human touch she has felt in years, a touch that fills her marble coldness with warmth, though she doesn't think the other humans can be warm like him. Days turn into weeks which run into months, but he doesn't show himself. Little does she know he tries to catch a glimpse of her from his cell window each night and yells in frustration when he can't see her. She keeps waiting for him oblivious to the knowledge that might have offered some comfort. Then, one autumn afternoon, when the leaves from the tree overhead have turned golden from age, a man lifts himself up to her pedestal butt he isn't the one she is looking for. This stranger, with his rough hand removes the diadem from atop her head while she hears chiseling sounds at her feet. Two pairs of hands brusquely list her off of the pedestal that she has stood on since her creation– then come the people. They throng around her, eager hands jostling and lunging at her, trying to remove the gems that adorn her figure. The two holding her can battle the crowd no longer and she falls, breaking against the very pedestal that once held her. She lies helpless, as men, women and children wrench out the glittering stones from her shoes and dress; someone gouges the blue stone of her right eye and pockets it. With the other she has the satisfaction of spotting him in the distance before the other eye is ripped out too.
He came racing the moment he was released, hoping to smile up at his statue once more. Now, he sees filthy hands violating her, robbing her of anything valuable until the leave behind the naked marble. He tries to get closer, but the mob shoves him back until he hits his head on a lamp most and falls into the dirt. The crowd disperses eventually when there is nothing remaining except for the marble husk. He walks over to her, sitting upon the pedestal, looking into the hollow eyes and smiling mouth, that stabs his heart a hundred times over. Life resumes in the marketplace, no one spares her another glance. She lies there, shattered, fragmented, to be discarded in the morning by garbage collectors. Dusk casts a rosy glow over her cheeks. He picks up a broken lily petal, lying beside her severed head, and clasps it tightly in his palm, wondering how long before he meets the same fate.
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This was inspired by John Keats' obsession with immortality ad crystallized existence and once again Kyungsoo invaded my head... so there you have it...
