Glass
The artisan mixes sand and offers it to his oldest ally: fire. The fire accepts, demanding more—more heat, more life. Inside the furnace, amid deep oranges and yellows, the sand finds the privacy of its own hell. It melts slowly, its grains fusing into a viscous plasma: an infernal honey glowing with quiet intensity.
What was once earth is no longer. Fire alters it, suspends it, and tempts the artisan to court it. Like birds of paradise in a ritual dance, they move together—guided by breath, steel, and rhythm. The blowpipe becomes an extension of the body; the tools, instruments of precision and care. Through repetition—heat, air, and touch—the molten matter reaches its climax.
A single drop of water,
touches the most fragile line. Tension thickens. The future is uncertain; the past, irrelevant. Only the present exists. Then, in the sweetest of separations, glass breaks free from steel.
No longer in the hands of its maker, it becomes its own being—a suspended moment carried in quiet procession to the warm coffin that awaits it. There, it rests in ecstatic stillness until morning, reborn yet cold, stripped of its glow. What remains is the residue of an emotional cataclysm: delicate, ephemeral, and infinitely fragile.
A single object of immense value—one that, with the slightest carelessness, turns this story into memory.
