Willed into Existence

It doesn’t start with wood.

Or metal.

Or stone.

Or tile.

It starts as something I can’t shake.

Not a thought.

Not a sketch.

An infection.

A rhythm that won’t let me rest.

I see it finished before it exists.

Every line.

Every proportion.

Fractions of an inch tightened in my head

long before a tool is touched.

That’s the fight.

Not in the shop.

In here.

Music without language.

Vision without matter.

I redesign it.

Refine it.

Add detail no one will ever notice

because I already can.

I don’t stumble into a build.

I contain it.

Until I can’t.

Then I translate.

The shop isn’t where it’s born.

It’s where it’s delivered.

And when it finally stands there —

silent,

inanimate,

exactly as I saw it —

it feels alive.

Not because it breathes.

But because I willed it into existence.

And just when the quiet settles,

another rhythm starts playing.