Language of forge

Henry looked at his hands. Each finger bleeding as sharpened metal struck his blood. His eyes watered. Mouth heaving as his fuzzy beard gleamed in the sun. Lacking some oxygene, he looked down. A big awkward rock carried a bent ore. The metal all twisted as he tried smashing it with a rock. The warm fire to the left died down with the day. Embers briefly welcoming the door creeking in the wind.

"Well. Good luck with that" Sarah said. Her eyes both pity and disdain. Really just indifference. Her own demeanor screamed of self assuredy of whom she judged.

"Yeah. Thanks. I know I am blacksmith. I just need to make the tools" Henry truthfully and honestly said.

Her eye twitched and the sneer grew. Girls behind her grabbed her arm. Pulling Sarah away. She twirled around and walked gracefully away. Outside, Henry heard the faint whispers.

"That guy is one of those men." One girl said.

"No. All men really. Just what kind of weirdo is in there?" Another one said.

Sarah said, "I don't know. I kinda see something, but he is all wrong. He really just needs to accept his place."

Then Henry was alone. They could not see. Forging is a process. A place of growth. No man suprassed without struggle. Every history planted a seed for new failures to birth new life. He knew better. Failure is the key to something more.

He heated up the forge. Melting the iron. The gooey heat sliding and bubbling. Glowing like warmth taking shape. He formed it, and then smashed with a rock. Out came something certainly different. His 'hammer'. Then as days went he smashed more hammers. Until the rock could offer no more. Then he used the junk hammer to smash more hammers. Out came a hammer with more solid and dependablitity. Then he smashed more.

Days went. Days spent. Soon the smashing turned into hammering. Actual sounds of clink and not destruction. He made prongs, an anvil. With each successfive form his hammer became real.

Then it all came to be. The forge happened. The forge hinged on the stupid rock. And the rock was his original journey. The impossible did indeed take shape because of gradual formation. A perfectly formed hammer. Made from the history of failures. Soon his blacksmithy completed. 

He let out a small laugh.

"Yes. Let's continue" he said.

Henry created all of his needs and wants. Completing the foundation. 

"Now tomorrow is here, and most certainly real. Let's step into it." Henry smiled.

The whole forge puffed and smoked. The door held in sound as the hammer churned out new failures. The fire grew larger. Apprentices joined their teacher. Repeating his process as skill expanded outwards. A tree of comptence and faith grew. Confidence in life being true. It all came to to be and there. 

Until tools, hinges and nails became part of the work. He commonisened decorative weapons and shields. He repaired the mayors carriage. On and on. His forge expanded. His mind sharpened. He loved his craft. The journey inside all that was forged.

As for all those women, he would never see them again. They may of heard about his success, yet Henry did not seek them out. His language of form demanded to be kept sacred. Being around them meant exposing his tender side. His heart beat needed grounding. Words could damage more than anything. Those women would dismiss his accomplishments or glare at his own gentle form.

They are the kind of people who will never see beauty within the heart and hold on to their anger. Distrust of anyone who will not fit inside their own narratives. They will not see because they will not look up and past things today. Only the past whispers and demands retribution.

For their group they say. Only we can trust us. Our group's ideals will succeed and no one else. Men, women, nationality. Prejudice robs of everyone. No matter what tribe you belong to. 

It will burn out and shove every change. The improvement of life goes away.

Locking you into the statue of your own image. Pride burns.

Like a frog where the water slowly heats up. You do not realize what you are turning into until you are very bitter and left hurting. Not knowing at all how to expand because love has left you.

Love is listening, with compassion and thinking with care that changes people. 

Men, Women, culture, tongue and people. We are all destined for better things. The storm cannot crush what is built sturdy. Innovation happens out of need. 

Change of nature for those who will care. The craft, the words, the narrative shapes the user. We cannot stand apart from our beliefs. They are part of our fiber and will color any doubt that pleases your might. 

Human beings will be. Human beings will dream.

Follow the trail. Keep going. Never give in to the bitter snake. Venom dripping, ready to strike. The viper will claim you. Just you wait. Unless you get out of the weeds and find a place of sanctuary. A place of peace. Find your light. 

Light will peel the hurt away. The radiant sun will transform the single form of truama into the action of hammering. Refining your deeds creating strength. Light expands humanity no matter the gender or race or culture. The golden heart will be for all. No one is rejected. 

Everyone can change. The world at large. Gravity defined. For a better world, and a better life. The home. The family. Central to all. Release the history as you step upon word to word. Giving those chapters one last time. Releasing your plot.

Love for hope and hope to act. Faith to love and sacrifice for love. Hope to sweet. Bitter left to judgement and fate. Faith guiding your hope. Enlighten and expand. Freeing you. Into the pond, the lake, the ocean then the sky. Out. More. Definition. Solidarity and form. 

Warmed by Light.