Sorrow can be solid; you can feel it thumping, knocking the air out of your lungs, rendering you incapable of drawing breath, air inches away but so still, you cannot suck it in.
A thousand thoughts rush through your brain and rush into your veins, pushing your blood harder and harder until you feel that your nerves are too narrow to carry them. You can feel the edge of an ancient rock being scraped, an impression digging deeper and deeper, making its mark, a mark no sculptor will find it easy to erase and camouflage.
The sculpture is marred, and marred for life. Time brushes against its wounds, sometimes carressing, sometimes tearing, bloodless blood leaking out invisible to known eyes. There are no tears anymore, for rocks do not shed them, but the anguish lives on.
Until of course, the rock remembers what it is. A rock. That time will smoothen out its jagged edges, that the winds will even out its crevices, the water wash out the filth it has gathered, the soil root it firmly to the earth and leave it capable of standing: alone, not lonely. Wounded but healed.
Until it remembers that rocks do not feel. And returns, true to its nature, to that space where all emotion, good and bad, happy and sad, washes over it like the gentle waves of the sea, salt crusting over its features, but unable to sear its scars. Not any more.
And so, they must forget not, what they are and what they are becoming, for they shall stand past eternity, for they are human, and made of soil. Just like sculptures.