Writing on clay

I have almost forgotten how to write. As I typed out those words, I was thinking if I it was more apt to write that I have actually forgotten how to. But as is needed for survival, I embraced the assumption that I have not absolutely deleted my capacity to write but that I have only almost forgotten. I have been on the brink of almost spilling all my writing memories. The adverb "almost" exudes a glint of hope, a tiny glint of tiny hope.

From this tiny glint of tiny hope I move on desiring that in my struggle to recover I'd eventually find my way back to writing.

This struggle simultaneously takes place with my struggle with life in general. Lately, I feel like a clay pot in the making process. My now is like the feeling of a handful of clay, undefined. The potter knows what I am going to be. The clay doesn't. The clay wants to know but she can only feel her way through as she let the potter mold her, sometimes needing great amount of heat to achieve his goal. The clay is afraid she won't be useful. She is afraid that her now is not useful. She is afraid the potter might just throw her away. She is in a struggle within herself. Yet she has to believe that she is "almost" there.