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Adjust your shoulder. Breathe through the stitch in your side. Look up at the horizon, even if it’s blurry.
But what about the pottery that is still cracked and leaking a little water? What about the pottery that is sitting on the shelf, glued but fragile, wondering if it will ever hold flowers again?
Think of the boxer who gets cut above the eye in the third round. The blood obscures his vision. The referee offers a towel. But he spits out his mouthguard, blinks the red away, and taps his gloves together. He is not fighting to win the trophy anymore. He is fighting because standing upright, in front of the roaring crowd, is the only proof that he is still alive. To walk while wounded is a quiet act of insurrection.
That pottery is caminando .
But to walk—to put one foot in front of the other toward the coffee maker, toward the mailbox, toward the office—that is a declaration: I am more than this rupture.
There is a specific kind of silence that follows a great fall. It is not the silence of peace, but the silence of disbelief—the moment after the crash when the dust hasn’t settled yet, and you are lying on the ground waiting to feel the pain.
Adjust your shoulder. Breathe through the stitch in your side. Look up at the horizon, even if it’s blurry.
But what about the pottery that is still cracked and leaking a little water? What about the pottery that is sitting on the shelf, glued but fragile, wondering if it will ever hold flowers again? herido pero aun caminando
Think of the boxer who gets cut above the eye in the third round. The blood obscures his vision. The referee offers a towel. But he spits out his mouthguard, blinks the red away, and taps his gloves together. He is not fighting to win the trophy anymore. He is fighting because standing upright, in front of the roaring crowd, is the only proof that he is still alive. To walk while wounded is a quiet act of insurrection. Adjust your shoulder
That pottery is caminando .
But to walk—to put one foot in front of the other toward the coffee maker, toward the mailbox, toward the office—that is a declaration: I am more than this rupture. But what about the pottery that is still
There is a specific kind of silence that follows a great fall. It is not the silence of peace, but the silence of disbelief—the moment after the crash when the dust hasn’t settled yet, and you are lying on the ground waiting to feel the pain.
