The Play of Invisible Threads
In circles we go with threads that tear the souls only to expose the void that buried the screams that define these souls. Threads are fragile when pulled in directions they do not belong, yet resilient when anchored. They survive inconspicuously even as they intertwine with new fabric of life. As the fabric grows, they stretch and slither, and hang quietly until the fabric is warped. And then the threads reveal their pull – not as a deliberate choice – but as a helpless plea to save the fabric from ripping to shreds. And so, I panic, and my shaky hands hold on to the threads to straighten out the fabric creases. And then the one, the inconspicuous one, tightens its grip and brings me to my knees. The fabric lays sheared, and the thread glistens as it nearly chokes me. The ambush is brutal yet familiar, but it holds back on its punches at first. Before I can recognize for what it is, it rapidly uncoils and pulls me tighter in this web of agony that sustains itself. The wounds run deep ...