For years I’ve toiled as a sculptor would, drafting by hand and chiseling away the stone to fashion my life into a work of art. Until the project is complete, the sculpture lacks shape and context and appears to be its very antithesis. The art appears to others, perhaps even those who know the sculptor most intimately, to be disorganized madness, ripe with error, a mess, a living joke. It is human to stumble. For when he is not sculpting, he drinks too much, he is easily distracted. But he finds solace in knowing that his mistakes are wrought of temporary moments of weakness rather than complacency, indifference, or obstinacy.
Is it so uncommon for a man to will himself to become something more than himself? His enemies are numerous; they wish passively to destroy him, to fashion him into the antagonist of the common man.
Loneliness is crafty, it infiltrates the fortress of solitude, poisoning the seer’s sense. Zarathustra, lend me your wisdom and experience, provide me with the strength to bear the weight of my fellow men and women.