You're sitting there, hands smeared with clay
You feel good for a bit, like some sort of God
Even with bits of buffstone wedged underneath your fingernails,
you believe that you can create something beautiful - like some sort of deity wishing to gift the earth with the promise of life

Versatile in your hands, the ball of clay bends and folds while thoughts run through the confines of your mind
‘This clay,’ you think to yourself, ‘it’s doughy, weak and indefinite. Just like me.’
But, regardless of the similes and metaphors you pull from the material,
you’re convinced that you can do whatever you wish

Unlike drawing, your creation is not limited by the second dimension
And unlike the guitar, with its muted sounds or ringing E string, it isn’t as hard to destroy the purity of your art

You aren’t naive, and you are aware that it is impossible to create something perfect
It won’t ever be symmetrical, smooth or faultless - something that even we, vulnerable humans, can’t attain
You’ve done all to satisfy the need to transfer your grief, longing, joy and love into art
Maybe this is it