A mound of clay transforms into pots in hours. Each pot looks identical. But I wonder—does the potter feel the same shaping every one? Is there joy in the rhythm, or is it just routine?

Each curve of the clay carries a trace of his hand, maybe even his mood. A fleeting emotion, frozen in form. What stories would he share if asked about the pots?

Or perhaps, like the clay, he’s shaped by the act of creating—silent, steady, and a little mysterious.

A potter’s world is one of quiet emotion, moulded into shape.