Like those times in Washington DC, the capitol by which I’d live, whenever I’d walk the corridors of Union Station, as both a child and adult, I’d see gargoyles lining the ceiling rim, each with a own unique expression carved onto their stone faces, one inspecting me curiously, while another was intended to evoke in me a chill, its arched brows and fangs, hissing without a sound, and beside it, its pudgy, funny neighbor, eying me though indifferent as to whether I was even there;. I’d be amazed at how they were filled with so much personality, then walk away feeling sad, sometimes relieved, at knowing they weren’t “real”.

This same feeling would occur when visiting other parts of the city once I’d walk out the station’s doors, like the grand Roman horseman at the entrance of the Memorial bridge, as if the Gatekeeper of the city, before the Lincoln Monument–his horse fully fleshed though lifeless, bloodless, bulged veins running through its calves, the body sculpted in iron grey. Everywhere within this Capitol is an illusion to the etheral: mythic depictions of George Washington, columns and steps resembling those of Ancient Rome and Greece.. Lady Justice crowning Congress.. and her colossal sister up in NYC, Lady Liberty, wielding her torch to welcome weary immigrants arriving by boats and ships in the pursuit of a better life.

“Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free..”

Witnessing these statues in these settings is like falling into some master architect’s dream where mythical beings inhabit a city, and as you you excitedly run towards a denizen (in this case, these and other statues), they tease you by never coming to life, and you’re trapped in that dream.

There seems to be life in them–though there’s no motion, no pulse.

I had also been discouraged from exploring the imagination when in school, my creativity was so little valued so I just shunned that part of me.