In the beginning…
I was no more than a lump of clay in the hands of a cruel
potter. Shaped and reshaped and destroyed only to be rebuilt again and again.
As time progressed…
My life took form and started to resemble something real and
familiar and unique, but still unrecognizable. Not yet art, but primed with
potential, and by value practically worthless.
Yet life continued…
I made the most of what the universe gave me, though limited
in functional skills, I summoned every ounce of tenacity and hope and steadfastness
- finally tasting the fruits of my success until my back was tired from the
strain of it all.
But once again…
I found that the universe did not care if I won or lost, but
it was always there to give me the push that I needed, always intertwined with pain
and struggle and messiness.
At once I discovered…
There is a peace in the ruthlessness of the world. The darkness
is a constant that never leaves us, try as we might to grasp for hope and peace
and unconditional love, they are in short supply; we starve for the possibility
of their existence.
Then I made peace…
With all my foibles and shortcomings and peculiarities and realized that I am flesh and bone and skin that treads the same path with
billionaires and paupers alike. Try as they might to avoid it, their fates are
eternally intertwined with ours.
In the End…
I discovered that I am not a great man, but a man who does
great things, and a great many things. All those misguided adventures have molded
me into that elusive work of art that I longed to see completed - fired and
polished and on display for all to judge.
