I find a small space of empty bench and push the tools back a little further.
I hear the crisp cut of metal as I draw saw forward and back
as I push and pull melody of a small band, thinner than a blade of grass
I draw a line.
I whisper some kind of plan to myself and I light a flame
I go deeper.
As I grow twist into twirl the music behind me fades.
I'm thinking of both everything and nothing as I fall in.
Some days I cry.
Some days goosebumps grow so wildly across my arms that I swear some sort of chrysalis is happening.
Passion swallows me.
I ride so many waves here.
I break so many rules.
And I glide on the winds no matter which way they take me.
I trust my hammers march.
I alternate between steel and rawhide at a pace only my mind knows and my hands simply follow.
I tip my chair back and smile.
I grab a stone. Put it down. Grab another.
My fingertips covered in a glittering dirty dust that defines me in the low light.
My studio sings.
My heart sings.
My fears quiet.
My short comings don't exist.
My will is shimmering here.
My way is here.
My courage is here.
...and I am here.
I am so very here.