Clay

I wondered what artist must have felt, from their studios, during war times…if they felt any significance, to continue to carve at clay, to continue to shape, to continue to paint…

Hearts, beating in my head, like drums, you face it, you always must face it, carving your way through it, with ink and pain, bleeding out on this page…

You walk through grief…

There is no other way…

Even when it feels insignificant

Meaningless

——

Maybe this is how we love

Even when it feels meaningless

Even when we feel nothing

Maybe

This is how we live

How

The work must feel

Does it know it is art?

Does it breathe ?

Does it carry us with it?

Is it just clay

Ink

Paint

In a room –

Empty of us –

Empty ?

Or is it aware

Of the darkness in the earth

The grief

The pain

Our hearts slain

Bleeding out

Our voices

Silently screaming

This is the way

This is the way

Is a studio

Hearts beating

Against the night

Against the night

This is the way

-E

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