At some point, if you’re not a sculptor, you have to admit to yourself you’re not a sculptor. You can wish and hope and promise you’ll be a good boy if things would just be different, but it does no good if you’re not a sculptor; you just can’t be a sculptor.
The same is true for other things you’re not: a politician, a poet, an expert in transcendental medication…whatever. It’s easier to acknowledge the limitations if you assume the characteristics of those things you’re not are inherently lacking in your DNA. I am not, nor can I be, a woman. I am not, nor can I be, an alpaca. I am not, nor can I be, a sculptor. It’s in my genes.
Sometimes, though, I don’t like wearing genes. Dammit. I had so wanted to be a sculptor.
