This is the story of a statue.  It was found covered in ivy and so old that it could no longer be traced to a creator or considered a form of expression or art.  
  It was taken into a home where the light shone through large windows and the cold winds were kept away.  The human was rarely home, but the statue was content to always be there for them.
  Winter came and the windows were covered and the fire was often out.  Dust collected and the human lay ill in another room.
  The statue could do nothing but keep standing.
  A visitor came one day.  They looked at the statue for a long time, then asked to buy it: to take it home and exhibit it proudly.  The statue was sold and scheduled to be moved.
  But no one ever came.  Furniture moved and was taken away.  The statue was put into a corner and left to wonder.  Was it beautiful?  Was it chipped somewhere?  What shapes did it take?
  Its human sat in a chair across the room without looking at the statue.
So there it sat: sold but not taken, loving but not loved, unsure of itself, made of stone.
  It told itself that one day spring would come, or at least a mirror would be placed so that it could see its own true form.
So there it waits, loving, hoping, wondering, standing: just as a statue is meant to be.