My footsteps are heavy as I walk into my studio.
The bipolar disorder,
now make all my equipment seem like mere pieces of metal.
I do not want to acknowledge them for what they are.
I set the blowpipe on the yolk.
The furnace is raging,
roaring like the anger inside of me.
The tip should be preheating,
Yet I thrust the pipe to get the glass
and vigorously roll it out on the marver.
I blow to create a bubble inside the molten glass
but lava of confusion seems to be bubbling inside me.
I just feel angry from the struggle.
The bench is where I can create.
I scramble for jacks and paddles to mold my shape.
Surely this will help me think back,
back when I was a child who enjoyed making things with my hands,
back when I was a student who found joy in glass art,
back when I was a person who seemed healthy a few days ago.
Surely this will help.
What have I done?
I tried cutting the glass with my shears,
but I pushed it too far.
I pushed myself too far.
My depression inspires me
but does not help me.
I stick the pieces in water anyways.
When I pull them out,
they are beautiful
at least for now.
I can wait to create until I am back,
back as that child who created to get it all out,
back as that student who learned the art of expression,
back as that person who is healthy.
I accept this,
all of this.
Written by Cato Jun
Edited by Rodlyn-Mae Banting