Sora

I sit and try to give space to my clay thoughts, they feel so thinly brittle right now. I feel I should be able to mould the supple feelings, the watered paths, but all the alluvial lines are dark, stained by some shadow I fear to place words around. The wild places cannot be caged, hairs on neck and grass thoughts that run through silvered wind. Words are cages, holding in meaning that I so desperately want rather to let go of. To find my way around the shards, that once held such static beauty, but now are shattered fragmented words. I need them to be so, I cannot take such clean lines, such cultured musings, they kill me over and over again. I give into these shadowed shapes I don’t know arising from my trembling hand, twisting. We start so pliantly, so easily marked or marred, sometimes I feel like Prometheus, dying again and again for the spark. Or maybe nothing more than his clay creations, nothing more than rolled dust into numbered moulds. With clay hands and a clay heart. That is my fear named. And it begs me to shatter the shape I have created for it, for I have been both pliable and unmovable How can one be both? The heart always moist and the body cracked earth.

Written in 2010