The Clay House

It grew limbs in another clay house, eyes shut it supped at that table. On a day or night it awoke to great confusion. The little clay house waved its arms and yelled. It did not know it was a clay house, It did not know what dwelt within it. Before it moved into the clay house it chose to forget. Other’s told it who it was. For a long time it believed it was only clay with a clay name, a clay identity. Life flips through its book of years, only a few times seem indelible most sink into a fog of forgetting. Yet you co-create more houses of clay, you bring forth new houses. Today you look out of your windows. You notice, you know that what you see is inside out. The clay of your house is illumined by the one thing the world of perception cannot create. It has a real interiority, a real owner. You turn to see that being in your house, now you go blind again, now there is nothing to see. Are you being haunted? You ask: Who lives here? The clay is mute yet the being speaks from every room, nook, and cranny - it speaks. It has the voice that you forgot you once had, a voice you share with a greater being. You remember at last that clay is part of the many illusions that the world belongs to. Now you renovate, clean and sweep, make ready to step out of the guise of your house.