I reach with calloused hands into a pool of muck and discord. I sift for golden-laced clay in a lake of sewage runoff. My hands burn from the acidic waste.
My arms are scarred to the elbows from the previous ingredient gatherings. It's too easy to get pulled into the mud of writhing human masses.
I come away with a lump of potential malleability. Awkwardly shaped and unbalanced. It clings to my wrists with the investment of validation.
I wring the earthy silt onto my potter's wheel, despite the comfort of it's embrace. I waste no time in spinning it into a shape I find more pleasing. Deft fingers and observant eyes try and make a copy of a vision of a dream.
I fail. Again.
This one has too many cracks. That one too wide. This one too old. That one too soft.
I feel as though I'm trying to forge an anti-Grail. A sacred chalice to enshrine my warped values. An eternity vessel to house a shard of my being.
I can't seem to get the recreation process quite right. None of my attempts to duplicate my previous perfection make it to the final step. The process of firing my work in the kiln of commitment, and sealed with peach grove glaze. I abandon every failure with the disinterest of resentment. Frustration at my own lack of ability. Denial at the fundamental paradox in the mortal schematic of my desired design.
11:52 p.m. - 2014-05-29
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