I mould clay with my bare hands.
I want a different kind of life: one of reverence, not of spectacle. I sculpt until my fingers bleed.
There is sanctity in the slow forming of things, and beauty lies in the ends themselves. When I die, I hope my body nurtures new life. I hope the bees’ legs grow heavy with clumps of orange pollen.
Let my attention speak where words cannot. Meaning is lost through language - the only tongue we are taught to trust. There is more to life than hollow words. Let those who cannot see or hear recognise something in me that cannot be explained.
And let that something be kindness. Even when my fingers bleed, my hands do not flinch from the work of care.
