Weekly Writing – December 16 2023

The soul spins in the chest like clay on a potter’s wheel. The warped sounds of its turning emerge as words and breath and spiral up into crooked thought. Time and the beating heart maintain its motion – tragedy briskly moulds it, while love can apply only the lightest pressure, bending into new shapes over the course of patient years.
Souls are separate, suspicious blocks of mud, but collisions and slow pressures have been known to meld them together. In those cases, chests are irrelevant and tragedy is a chisel. The pressure of love becomes an internal gravity – pull them apart at their peril. Time beats on, and hearts mould them into a shape taller than thought, looming and grander than any one mud of a life could ever become alone.