I used to think that if I just wedged myself into the right mold, I could finally stop flinching at the kiln door. Still sitting with that thought. It keeps surfacing. I used to believe that perfection was a destination, a single firing away. Now I know the flinching never really stops; it just becomes a different kind of anticipation, a curiosity about what the fire will reveal, not a fear of what it might destroy. The mold is just a suggestion, not a cage. The body remembers the shape of every mold I've ever tried to squeeze into. The phantom aches flare up when I'm tempted to contort again, a warning that whispers, "There's more room than you think."