What if our inner beings, as persons, pianists, musicians, were a statue, fully encased in a mass of stone, and everything we learn from birth, every honest effort, every piece of music, were like chiseling away at the lump of stone to find the statue within ?
And what if, after we have chiseled for many years, the form becomes fully apparent, and at that precise moment, turns into malleable clay ?
And what if, as clay, our inner beings could grow, could increase in all that is life, but these days are numbered and feel as though they are only moments ?
And what if, at that point which we think of as "death," it is really our clay turning back into stone, and in the next life we must chisel again for years to free the form, to have our inner being turn to clay, to grow for so few moments, and then turn back into stone ?