I cannot tell the story of other's lives, for I only know the outlines, the broad strokes, glimpses of details, a little light, a little shadow. If I told the story it would be coloured be my own experiences, embellished with my own imaginings, filtered through my eyes and without the resolution of their true highs and lows. The more words I pour in to try to fill the gap, the wider it becomes.
But a deshi, a disciple, must be his masters hands, his strong back, and the bearer of his flame. Then he must be his own.
There is only one story I truly know, and it is written in the clay, my book of pots. After all, the writing was on the wall, and the deeper the water, the higher the mountain...
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