Clay

♦ Joud Alkhalifa ♦

Day #1 - Welcome to the repetitive cycle. 

Spend my days in a small confining box, trapped with millions of versions of myself, other people the exact same, looks the same, act the same, the same purpose,

Your not special, it tells me,

The voice sitting in my ears, your just the same, on this earth to be just another version of the people who came before you, 

Just in the earth to be shaped, molded into what you are supposed to be, and it all happens with even a clue,

Shhhh, I begin to hear as if it is a fire alarm for a fire that has already burned down the building, I hear her coming closer, she begins to open the lid click, click, click, click, oh how I wish I was next, oh how I wish this strange being could just rip me out and give me a purpose, I wish I didn't have to wait so long for such a short life to begin,

I see my brother being torn apart, beat, harmed, by the strange being, “that's the real world” the others say, well what does that mean? Will life never become something to be enjoyed?

Day #2 - Emotions.

The container is almost empty. She rips us out piece by piece, molding them into what is normally called “art” art to be loved and adored by millions, but at what expense? 

I hear the other speaking “who do you you think mother shall choose next” 

Parenthood, it's as if we are dogs with a strong back, she only feeds us the knowledge to mold us into what she pleases, 

As if we are clothes sitting on a rack, one dry piece on our body is torn off and broken to pieces, 

We live in this strange life, you see, most only consume the knowledge given to them, no more, no less, 

But when we choose to venture out a little, to find our own meaning, 

We don’t only find love but we also find pain, 

But that's the thing you see, when your dull body is given what can only be represented as emotion, the beauty of learning how to feel is much more important than what we classify as “happiness”,

I’ll never get to live that life. 

Day #3 - Freedom. 

Here it is, it has finally come. 

The last handful in the box, become completely un-numb,

I wave to everything, the box of paint on the counter, the piles of sketchbooks, everything I can find, I know they can’t see me or at least I know they don’t care to see me, because I know what's coming, and I’ll walk you through it. 

She beats me, squeezes me, shakes me, until I become her image of “ready”, she digs her hands deep into my skull and begins shaping me, just hoping I will become what she wants me to become. 

What will I be, a cat? A dog? Or perhaps a human if I’m lucky! No, no, no, no, none of that, she fights against my stubbornness until she hits me in the head “it's pointless, this one’s a scrap”

You can guess where I ended up. 

I wasn’t good enough.

I never will be. 

Too stubborn. 

I am clay, they shape me, ruin me, throw me against a wall. Until I want to be who they want me to be.