I can’t remember if I’ve posted this before but figured why not.
I am a potter. I make things of clay and I made places to keep them. Early on they all seemed good, or at least I thought so. And the things I made aged and weakened and became horrible, so I destroyed them. But a few things I’d made were still good and those I kept. I made more and more until everywhere I looked- there they were. They infuriated me with their flaws. I made so many to be all alike, but most of them were cracked, chipped, damaged, weak until I hated them.
I threw them at each other. They crashed together and destroyed one another. I said to them, “You will decimate one another!” I ruined shelves and shelves, setting them one against another until they crumbled. Then I ceased my rage and grew tired.
I watched them and waited in silence. There were still so many, and they perpetuated themselves on and on. Then I wondered what it must be like for them, being destroyed at a word from me. I wondered what it would feel like if I were of clay as they were. So I did it. I made myself of clay and went amongst my work. And I saw that we were beautiful. I wept at the destruction I inflicted. And when they found out who I was they destroyed me. And I allowed this, because only in destroying me could they free themselves.