For centuries he stood, seeing everything from worship to war, the tingle of feathers caressing his granite flesh reaching his senses still as he became roost for pidgeon and falcon alike. A priest cursed for his blasphemy, for loving a woman more than the Church, for being man first before Child of God, encased for eternity in the stone edifice like Lot's wife in her salt. He had dared look back at his beloved as the tears rolled down her face, dared mouth the forbidden words that spoke his affection, and there he had been frozen, moved later to the cathedral who's name had long escaped his memory. He witnessed with great sadness the rise and fall of human culture, mind and sight still active even in their solid tomb. He watched as people soon overlooked him, only occasionally pausing to look, to wonder at his purpose, his legend forgotten even to the citizens, who shook their head when asked to tell his tale.
People barely regarded him these days, hardly noticed as they walked hand in hand, man and woman and in later years, to his shock, more and more of the same sex sharing the affection that had caused him to be damned. He wanted to cry out, to tell them to hide, lest they, too become mere edifices forgotten by time and tide. Yet, the populace seemed not to care, not to take notice of anything once considered a vile abomination- even a rape in the darkness right below his pedestal went unnoticed with no one coming at the behest of the poor woman's screams.
If he could shed tears, they would see his stone eyes pour rivulets like some blessed icon. If he could kneel and pray for the travesty that was the modern world, he would prostrate himself before the altar daily.
Yet he could only weep internally- for the living eyes that missed all the beauty his stone eyes could see, for the young ones marvelling at glass buildings and sparkling machines instead of sunrises and butterflies, for all that mankind wasted and selfishly hoarded.
He saw the man looking up at him, scrutinizing every feature, running his fingers over the stone now made rough by pockmarks of age and abuse. The cursed priest watched in awe as the man seemed enchanted with the very expression on his face, a serene, yet sad mask of resignation. But folk now marvel over gold and glitter, not stone, he thought, who is he to be any different?
Seeing the third eye around the man's neck, however, the priest understood- he was one of a select few humans that could look into the soul of the inanimate and make them alive as they would be in real. He had seen a few of these human's works on billboards, on buses, various things that humans coveted, yet he somehow knew this one was different, that his third eye was for more than mere decoration. No, this one truly Saw, truly understood what was behind the robes of stone that flowed like the heavy wool they represented.
"Who made you?" the man asked, circling the edifice, noting light and shadow and the play of it on every crease and crevice. "Or, should I be asking, what did you do to get this way?"
The priest surely would've raised his eyebrows. Impossible! How does he....?
"Whatever it was, hope it was worth it, old chap."
The man smiled up at him, and raised his camera, the priest mentally drawing himself up proud, hoping that his work would show that he was truly alive, that he still existed.
That humans were a redeemable lot after all.
Copyright ©2009-2010 Spiritwind Studios Ltd.
Photography by Jun Tuazon
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