Cloud

Mounted on Cherry Wood · 25 cm · Porcelain · Crystal Glaze · 24ct Gold

Nothing is fixed.

The cloud knows this better than anything alive. It is water that forgot it was ocean, rose into air, became something weightless and unnamed, and will fall again — not as what it was but as what it needs to become. It does not grieve the form it leaves behind. It does not cling to the shape it holds now. It simply moves.

This is the oldest cycle there is. Water becomes vapour becomes cloud becomes rain becomes river becomes sea becomes sky again. No beginning. No end. Only the endless willingness to become the next thing.

And yet we resist. We hold our shapes so tightly, as though letting go were a kind of death. We call it loss when something changes. We call it falling apart. But the cloud does not fall apart. It falls into the next version of itself. Every dissolution is a becoming. Every ending, a doorway the wind holds open.

Perhaps this is what frightens most, the probabilty of losing what we are... yet that what we are was never meant to stay. That we were always meant to move like water moves, like wind moves, like light through an afternoon sky.

Not toward something. 
Not away from something.
But through.
Always through.

you do not need to know what you are becoming in order to trust the becoming itself. 

The cloud does not ask where it is going. It goes. And in going, it is everything...
ocean, mist, storm, stillness,
....
rain on someone's face who needed to remember what tenderness feels like.

Nothing about you is fixed. Not your pain. Not your past. Not the shape you hold today. And this is not loss. This is the oldest mercy the world knows.