Am I staring, into the empty vase? or is it staring into me? My self, my being, reduced to molten core, and moulded in its shape. Its imperfections, shaped into me, become only far too clear. I can feel, the rough calluses, that shaped my exterior. I can feel, the gentle strokes, of the brush that painted. I can smell, the wet sodden earth, that once filled me. I can touch, the springy roots, of the flower that grew. My mother exclaims, "That's all he does, stares into things all day". She weeps, I know not why, her tears I don't understand. I wish, to cheer her, I present her the vase. Her hands gentle, placed it back, to where it belonged. Can't she see, the story of the vase? Madness! I say, Madness!
