a message from the spires
i see all of you down there. yes, even you. you all pretend like you aren't made of stone, but i know. i live up here, you see, and i plan to stay here forever. probably until i fall off and hit someone. that sometimes happens, you know. amongst these parapets and buttresses lies my very soul, but nobody ever looks up that high. i reside where humanity doesn't bother to look. i am the carved saints that i've forgotten the name of. i am the thing that spits and gets spat on. i get tired up here too. look up to the heavens and observe me—a direct product of hell. i don't have any room to stretch myself up here. if i could live for one day as a regular person, i would be happy. but, nope! here i am, and here i'll stay! not like i have much of a choice.
this prison of stone is nauseating. i'm on churches, i'm something greater than myself. this is holy loneliness, and this building is my great gallery of suffering. my grotesque appearance is but an artifice, my mouth agape a story not just untold, but a tale unable to be told. i'm the one giving the sermon here, not whatever priest is below me. i'm closer to the heavens, so i know better. i'm older too. wayyyyyy older. nobody ever gives something as scary as me a chance. they dismiss me by appearance alone. the man who created me wanted to be god and im his immobilized little limestone puppet. what if i wanted to be on a dave and busters or something? if you knew as much as she does, she would angrily explain to you why that wouldn't be possible, with rage like thunder. she's not really mad at you, she just cares too much.
i've become a sort of patron saint for a certain 16-year-old girl with a blog here—that girl is really something. it's really strange. i'm just made out of stone. nothing special to see. she says i'm a sort of "mundane masterpiece; a creature built of past centuries and eternal isolation," whatever that means. i'm just here to barf. she does that too. a lot, actually. some anxiety thing. i don't do anxiety. i'm a gargoyle, and i crave to be normal. breaking free isn't my decision to make. i must wallow until that day comes. could you imagine a gargoyle with a fear of heights? when you're stuck in a place for so long, you get used to it. you must get used to it, since it's your duty. being a gargoyle is more of a job than anything.
i have another friend up here too. he has a funny looking backside. hope he gets the girl. if he doesn't, i suppose that's fine too.
as long as he stays up here with us—maybe forever, if we're lucky.