I am on a journey to find a potter who turns clay that sounds my song. It is in this particular pottery that I can happily share my soul. Since pottery is an ancient art form my journeys are endless. Potteries are many like the many towns and potters too like those many that dwell. Likewise clay is here and there like the many flowers that grow of many colours, some lucid and others obscure.
I carry this soul within myself to share someday if I wish. And this desire is my journey along the waters carrying the earth. It shares my body for a while like a traveler in a lodge. Neither the traveler nor the lodge owns one other. This being and place hold in each other a selfless nothingness and yet fulfill each other’s need perfectly.
Where shall I journey to find that one potter? Is that one among the ones gone long ago? Is that one still waiting among the ones to come after? Or is my potter simply here refining the clay until I come? I wonder if my potter is waiting too. Or I wonder if we may ever feel the presence in times of contact. Or do I simply journey until my desire to share is over or that which I need to share is no more with me.
One last wish I may have is my zeal to journey. Though I find my potter or may never, this journey that I travel carries a shadow by day and a dream by night along with the sounding clay of my body and the song of my soul.
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