Purpose

There was always a stone angel there, waiting for the day. What day that was didn’t really matter. All days had blended within each other as the wait continued. The sun rose and set in a slow, fluid motion that only indicated that another day had passed. Anything else that came beyond that meaning was insignificant. The surroundings served as no use for its journey through existence within the world. It had a purposed that chiseled it out of stone.

Many days had already passed. Those days joined together to make months, years, and decades. Maybe something even beyond that. Memory wasn’t the kindest in keeping track of the days. There had been too many. Even the time that separated the moment from the time where everything froze over with brilliant, pale colors seem to be so far away. Then again, it could have simply been an hour ago.

The blue and white ice had covered the land as far as one could see in any direction. There was something delicate about the scenery, yet at the same time there was a harsh edge to it. It gave a covering to the world that reeked of death. There was nothing that seemed alive underneath it all. If someone had been around, they would have said it was depressing. Maybe someone already had. The angel had no way of knowing.

There was much that people had expected the angel to know. When there had been life, humans had guessed away at the story and meaning that the stone possessed. Even when one of the owners revealed the story, there were still the guesses. The name carved into the base, having not yet worn away from the strains of time, did nothing to the curiosity that weaved stories. But they were all guesses in the end. It was nothing really beyond guesses.

Life did once stumble pass the stone angel at one point. It had been sometime after the odd ice-like substance had taken over. There had been a rigid point to the movements. It dragged against the surface of the ground with a sort of uneasiness. Whether there had been lies or truths upon the man’s lips was forgotten. But there had been some sort of words. They were whispered into the air, tainted with death and a form of life beyond his own. The man had proceeded to collapse in front of the stone angel. His eyes were upon the name carved into the base before the blue and white ice captured him with death.

The man probably had a reason for being there with the angel. Probably. His death was not the one it was supposed to mark with its presence, covered in a gloss of ice. There was someone else in a land beyond that the carver had worked for. There was a meaning in the grander scheme of things. Whether it was a lie or truth, there was a purpose.

However, until the time came for its purpose, he would have to do.

(Author's Note: This is in reference to Vonnagut's Cat's Cradle with the stone angel.)