Memories

"... and this kiln is used to dry any pottery you make with temperatures over 1,000 degrees Celsius." were the words that burned themselves into my mind and petrified my young self. Sitting in the dusty attic of my old school, all I could think about was the temperature, feeling the heat despite the cold autumn day the kiln sitting unused through the long summer months.

Atavistic fear grabbed me and I could not move a muscle, my mind stretching into that fateful future day when a pot clumsily crafted by my unartistic hands will start its journey into the kiln, dragging me along by the burning fingers fried to the pot by the heat produced by the kiln.

The excruciating pain was hyper-real the awareness of my body melting away together with my fingernails, each burning hair a departing jolt into my nose.

I remember my focus shrinking into a tunnel of awareness pinpointed on the kiln to the exclusion of all other sensations, the closed gaping door of the kiln became my reality. I could feel the numbing of the petrification spreading, pain in reverse, slowly sapping away any experience of reality until the kiln was the only existence.

Kiln and the fear, the fatalistic fear of the prey, safe in the knowledge that it has been bested, and that the predator will feast tonight.

The meditation was interrupted by the teacher calling everyone to get ready for the next class.

I remember the breaking of the spell, the sudden rush of reality, reclaiming its rightful place in the corners of my mind and the fragmented memories of the kiln haunting me for days.

We never did get to use it after all.