Scraps of A Mind

Sculptor

Under the glaring sun, the Sculptor works tirelessly. Calloused hands molding the clay, and weaving brittle grass. Minute by minute pieces come together. A disk wide and flat, clear like the ocean on a calm day.

Into it goes reflections of every kind. The willows that burn in the blazing rage of wildfires; clouds that swiftly disperse, carried away on the gentle tides of winds. There are voices too, drifting past mountain peaks crumbling to ash. They say frightening things about souls, and power.

Days and nights pass in silence. Nature is watching the Sculptor, their hands shaking ever so slightly against the newly formed glass. The creator can never know the true reflection that will cast back at them until it's done. Only a lingering thought or half formed dream.

Sometimes the Sculptor sits back, watching the rays of light warm the mirror. It's smooth round surface refracts them in many directions. Encoded coordinates to a dying star, capable of incredible feats. It's a shame the thing had to be taken indoors.

But here it stands. Grafted legs reaching into the dusty floorboards like roots, final polishing making it glow in the dim light. The Sculptor doesn't dare look at it to closely yet, for fear what is revealed to be premature.

Mother would say, when smoke enclosed her head and her breathing rasped, "Cultivate your ideas like a precious flower. Coax them to yourself like wild animals. But never, reach out with selfish intention. Wait."

The Sculptor might have smiled at her words then, but now the brow is smooth. The meaning of them is almost unbearable. Many projects fell to dust under a curious eye, whose owner neglected the skittish butterfly that was the idea. Creation at its earliest stages...are humans half-formed in their minds.

It was with the thawing ice and snow that the apprehension melted. The Sculptor turned their eye to what their hands had made over many long days and nights. It was so flawed at first, cracks aligning at the base, paint peeling from a candle held to close. But it was beautiful, unbearable and wonderful.

The Sculptor saw the words, swirling through the glass, waiting to be born. This creation was terrible. Wholesome wood bordering it's edges, the colours on it shadowed by evening light. Some unearthly world was crammed into that space, and the Sculptor, wringing their hands with worry...loved it.