His hair was tied loosely on the top of his head like he had done it quickly (several days ago). The same fingers that shape the clay when he leans over the wheel. The same long fingers that tap on the steering wheel to that song that he loves. The same fingers that close the door to his house every night, alone.

The man who creates has put himself into a shell under the premise of, “it’s for my art. The silence helps me become myself.” But the silence does not help him create. The silence ends up becoming pages and pages of past sadnesses that refuse to leave because he can not go out and get new experiences, neither happy nor sad. So he is left in his apartment waiting for something to happen that will inspire him, but secretly knowing that it never will.

One day, the artist will open all of his windows and sell all of his work, all the coil pots, slab boxes, and stories written on the paper that wasn’t meant to be serious, and he will decide that today is the day.

"This is a new chapter. My new work will be new."

Today, he will stop trying to use drugs to help him create. He will spend every weekend in the mountains for the next three months, focusing on his breathing and looking at the stars for beauty, and not for hidden meaning. He will meet one new person a day in an effort to find the little things that make their own fingers spin. He will stop smothering himself and he will force himself to just make something new, either with his life or with his art.

In retrospect, the art that he is creating now will be some of his best work because it displayed to himself the person that he was growing into.

The artist is fighting for his work and he is fighting for the beauty to be his own. He will begin to love himself.