The monolith is hewn; the monument is built.
Once, nothing became something.
There was a game of possibilities. Patterns emerged that could—would—flourish or fail, wax or wane. And in the gaps between, there was nothing.
But nothing is an absence, defined by all the things that might one day be and yet never find fruition. It is an entropy of existence. For nothing to become something is as simple as a flipped bit, a chance mutation, a fallen leaf. Once it has become, it has always become, for castles are less fragile when built by something than nothing.
Something grows; and grown, it is seen.
Once, something became something else.
There were a people of potential and promise, of galvanizing growth. By their tools, their grand intention, the happenstance alignment of infinite years and atoms were as sculptor's clay, that which becomes the finest of statuary. Purpose carved from meaninglessness; the chance generation of the universe crafted into beauty, intentionality. That which served no reason ceased, randomness elided by the sculptor's art.
Something changes; and changed, it continues.
Once, something will become nothing.
There are beings who plant their intention and say, so far, no further. The bulwarks and the bastions, the stubborn flower that will defy even stone. In these hands, possibility is a single-minded tool. Resolution, pursuit, obliteration. What potential lies in empty space?
All that dies is only ever transformed, abscised and swallowed by wilderness, returned to infinite metamorphosis. To excise from that rich loam of transformation requires no less than perfect certainty.
Here is the secret: a ploughshare and a sword have never truly differed.