my neck aches from hours hunched over the wheel but it's a good ache like a release almost, feels like i'm pouring myself into something and finally becoming less... the way yuki used to say the clay remembers everything, it feels true, every anxiety i've ever held is imprinted on the bottom of some pot somewhere, but what if the clay remembers the joy too, the flow, the losing myself until it's just the wheel and me and the shape taking form, the way the mug just knows how wide my fingers are, the curve of my lip on the rim, feels like prayer, feels like coming home, the quiet isn’t emptiness, it's listening.