The people are like clay. Malleable as fresh clay in the sculptor’s hands, as fragile as clay pots falling to the ground. They change at the suggestion of creation, or the promise of destruction.
“The only thing that is constant in life is change.”-Heraclitus
And still I find myself searching for the beauty in that clay: the co-existence of the malleable and the fragile. The complexity of its versatility. I wonder, I marvel, I tremble at the curious possibility of something more. Both great and terrible. The riddle that lies in the clay.
The creator’s hands lay idle without a use for muse. Save for the inspiration of a mishappen brown ball. The clay must change its mold, take a new form. It is an act of social deviance. An alliance of ingenuity.
It is a common act to be like the clay. It is a masterful act to be the hands that mold the clay. But it is a rebellious act to be both the clay and the hands that mold it.
Why is it so radical to be yourself?