What would be lost if you dove under the surface of this turbid veiled identity and noticed yourself being smothering in the fabric of the woven scarf that once was that umbilical cord that pulled you to the one who gave birth to you, and discovered that what you always took for granted and labeled as common unexpectantly became peculiar.
Sheep was faced with a conglomerate of decisions throbbing together to make up a city that he once admired from afar. If only walls could talk, he thought, these very stones would cry out, as if with their vibration they tried shaking off the chalk that called them names they never wanted to listen to.
So much dust fell to the ground, chalk dust. Breathing was nearly impossible. The barenness of the walls would make one think they returned to their original state, but there is no way resetting a default. When sheep coughed, little fluffy clouds of memory bounced against the walls.
All this time, standing tall though unseen, why did nobody tell him his true purpose? It went far beyond the question of who he was. What if the concept of knowledge in itself was an illusion and it was him who was covered in clouds of dust of not a building but a sheep that just got torn down? Does truth exist? How could he ever know for certain? What evidence could wipe out the contrary? Would evidence stand on itself, as his city did? Or would it present itself only in the shimmering of what you could bare to understand. Could he see truth and live? I want to know, sheep said. I need to know. Even if it costs me my life.