The Thinker
...have for hundreds of years. Just over the hedge, I can see the gold dome marking the place where Napoleon is buried. All sorts of people pass by, some marveling at my creator's talent, others wondering why he represented the hands and feet so unnaturally large. It is easy to recognize the American tourists, in blue jeans, who gawk at nude statues, and the Britons, in slightly more formal clothes, gawking just the same. Young couples have passed me by, hand-in-hand, enjoying the weather and the garden and each other's company. And still, here I sit, in a lonely haze, separated by my very existence from everyone passing by. Completely alone, I look down as the people live their lives. They know that I am thinking, though they don't realize I'm wishing that I could be involved. I dream of the day when I can step down off of my platform and join in the everyday lives of these people, and maybe walk hand-in-hand with someone through the picturesque garden. I envy the French couple that walks past me everyday. I've watched them grow, from children chasing each other around me, to adults, with their sons chasing each other. I want this. Why can't I have it? Ah, yes, because my creator made me, instead of their creator. I was molded by the hand of Rodin, not the hand of God, and because of this, I am doomed to this lonely state, watching life but not living. Frozen and unchanging, I don't react. The rain and snow fall on my head, and still I sit here, thinking, contemplating something that no one will ever know. Perhaps one day I will be moved into a museum, and maybe these gardens will not always be here, but I will always be. Even long after the couple has died, and their children, and their children's children, I will still be frozen in thought, changeless for centuries. As everything around me changes, I never do, and this is the worst kind of...
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