The Young Hebbel

You carve and sculpt, the deft chisel in a soft shapely hand. I beat my head against the marble to knock it into shape, my hands work for a living. I am still a long way from myself, but I want to become Me! There is someone deep in my blood who cries out for homemade Olympuses and worlds for humans. My mother is such a poor wretch, you’d laugh if you saw her, we live in a tight annex, built onto the end of the village. My youth is like a scab: under it there is a wound that every day leaks blood. It disfigures me. I don’t need sleep, food just enough to keep from starving. An implacable struggle and the world bristling with sword points. Each one hungers for my heart. Each one, I, unarmed, must melt in my blood.