Perhaps the wrong direction this entire time.

Burning to ash the ramshackle walls of my life, then the floor.

Burning too much; some of this could have stayed. I don’t have the eye for this. I’ve confused myself.

I was no one’s apprentice, I struck out alone. Trying to fashion a life like a potter with his clay.

Self-belief. This one is good, into the kiln, I’ve finally arrived. Of course, the fired pot is shoddy and useless. I smash it and begin again. Exhaustion mounts; don’t look back.

I think I have become marginally more skilled, discerning, but I am still an amateur, a fool. My fingers are blistered. I drown in conflicting advice, a thousand possible paths. I need it simple. Each new idea sings of simplicity, a resonant hum, wholeness at last. Finally, a stable foundation. Then I burn it and begin again.