Its been months now. Well, i’ve baked bread, sewn a new dress, cooked dinner a few times, A smatter of creation, construction, but not quite the same. No physical, permanent release of emotion, energy, expression.
Whats wrong with me? My hands ache for the feel of the material. The cold metal, the warm wax, heavy hammer. My pores cry out for the connection that will ultimately hurt them. I feel anxious, agitated,. Something is brewing inside me and i need to facilitate its escape. Only part of me is resisting. Why? Is it fear? The fear of judgment, of failure. Fear of the words “waste of time” “whats the point”. Of misunderstanding and nonplussed bemusement. Surely there are more worthwhile things to be done. Cleaning out the cupboard under the stairs, going to the cinema, picking up some bread.
Its all on me. Its my choice. Soon the energy inside me will reach a limit and i will have no choice but to succumb to it. Take my tools from their box, open the tightly sealed, cold packets and lay it all out in front of me.
A pause. The first awkward touch, before familiarity takes hold. Like coming home. Suddenly all conscious thought is needless, only hands speak now.
