A cold morning beckons the thawing and the gnashing of the old hands which are moving as quickly as they can, making busy work of their surroundings as well as possible whilst also feeling the encroaching chill reach out and do its best to slow the hands down.
However, despite whatever it does, the hands keep on working tirelessly in order to reach a state where the cold is transformed into an embracing warm that does little more than allow the hands to reach some sort of “graceful” flow over that which they are working in order to see something of worth produced by the end of the session.
The clay is molded into something entirely new as the walls are torn down and reshaped into something old.
There is a way of direction that allows the hands to work as they do and they work in a loud silence that lacks hat it needs to lack in order to get the idea across that work is going forward into something else.
Of course the cold keeps on grabbing on, for it does not want the warm to get hold. It wants the hands to slow and lumber their way across their craft. However, the hands work in defiance and refuse to allow the cold to completely take hold, closing the door on its attempts whilst opening another in order to let the warm come in and try to find some sort of unison that will allow for a mutually beneficial relationship.
There is some sort of dance between all three of these elements that does not seem to be visible at first glance. However, it is there and it is one that has been going on for far longer than the hands, the cold and the warm seem to want to let on.
There is a push and pull that keeps on going, but soon it will be time for the cold to make way. There is crafting that needs to occur and the cold must let it happen, for this is a time when it has little say in the matter.
The day will be given to the hands and the warm as they work diligently toward a goal that will no doubt provide some sort of visible display by the time the work is complete. The day will be theirs and they will be able to embrace whatever it is that leads them down a path toward whatever it is that they create.
However, just as much as it is futile for the cold to try and hold on in the morning, no doubt the warm will have to leave and allow the cold its time with the hands and pull on them in order to slow down their attempts at creating something, for the cold too must, in this instance, be allowed to make its attempts to obtain whatever it is that it wants, regardless of how futile those attempts may be.
It’s a long dance.
The time it took to write five-hundred words: 07:19:20
I think that this started well but lost a lot of steam pretty quickly.
I guess it works kind of okay as a narrative.
Written in The Attic.