Kiln thoughts

Smashing knuckles against the sharp gritty walls of the tomb as the chisel misses it's mark and slides wide.  The weight of the mallet only stops when the knuckles come to a dragging stop on the shattered rocky surface. 
My muse of misery that is apart of so much of my waking hour thoughts.  She grows stronger as I grow weaker.  I'm a slave to the miracles of beauty that she creates. 
She is mocking,  cold,  and terribly cutting.  There is no choice of anything better.  Addicted to creating at all costs,  regardless of the cost. 
Although related, I believe that the the muse is not you. 
There can be long periods of complete silence from the muse and regardless of how I try to tempt her,  I only find that I know nothing about her.
Maybe it's her cruel unpredictable nature that is so appealing.  The thrill of the unknown is intoxicating

Progression of a dream

We all have dreams and so many of our dreams are left unfulfilled and unfinished.  This is one reason why I'm not letting the feeling of incompleteness to influence my desire or decision to work on something.  I feel like so often I get lost in the recognizable, and forget about the smaller details that lead to the finality of a piece.  I feel like what often gives "art" soul is not necessarily in the clarity or perfection of an image,  but at in the recognition of humanity and honesty present in the works.  I feel like art across the ages has always been about attempting to portray the soul or most ephemeral aspects of something. The clarity within the individualistic nature of lines of the line maker is asunique as someone's signature. It's as though it could be a thumbprint hidden within the nature of each individual line.