The potter and its defiant clay

Theres this one person in the whole wide world that seems to get to me. So much of nothing i seem to see. I dont know why, or where or how or what. But his words ignores my thick skull and pierces straight to the heart. Hes an uncle, my most loved uncle. Actually, hes my lolo uncle, but hes uncle nontheless. We dont talk much, nor do we know a lot about each other, truth be told, we rarely see each other. Im no even sure if he sees me as a nephew, or just rifraf, but he does get to me. Hes a preacher by trade, and a father to my uncle whos younger than me. Let me get to the point. Tonight, i made a discovery. It is not love that drives me to long for this uncle, but rather the lack of it. The utter lack of love from a parental figure. A person to tell me to not do what i do, to do what i dont, to watch my school activities, to sign my permission slips, to call me when i dont get home early. Little things. The little things are the measure lifes joys and sadness. When i look at this uncle, i see not an uncle, but the hand of a potter that shaped my father. They were distant to an extent, but close to a degree. Its kinda hard to describe, its like they only have a bond when they one of them needs the other, but never when the other just wants the other's company, and that relationship seemed to work great. Bottom line, i see my father in the person who shaped him, and having lost my father, i see the greatness of a father that never had a son of his own, and my dad, who never had a father, just like me.

Pitch White

Dark. In the dark. I love the dark, it leaves me in peace. It embraces me, It comforts without saying a word. It envelops me whole. It asks no questions, it tells no secrets, it asks for nothing more than your company. The dark is God's gift to the cowards. The dark is a place to hide your shame, your fear, your regrets. Funny though, how easily one can vanquish the dark. The dark, which instills fear into all its beholders, even grown men cower in the dark. Each movement in the dark, each sound, each quiver that is embraced by the darkness becomes the instrument of fear. It is where the hiders remain hidden, the weepers never have to wipe their tears, and those that hide from their sins are devoured by it every time they close their eyes. Then to them, darkness is a thief. It has robbed them of their freedom. They could no longer leave the dark for their eyes have grown weak to light. Their skin sensitive to the touch of the sun and their senses are in tune to the blackness of nothing. They are prisoners in their own loving darkness, which they loath and love, hate and long for, which in turn loves them and feeds off their love.