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 and the threads lacerate them to bleed with the same sickening anguish that led to their burial. For souls this battered, the shock seems more powerful than the suffering. But that is the timeless play of invisible threads– they inflict suffering so covertly that it appears dire to cure the shock, not the suffering. Defeated and tired, I begin to negotiate with individual pieces of my shattered soul for I think I have the tools that will protect against this war of souls and threads.

But invisible threads know so much more than I do. They expanded their reign stealthily yet consistently in my heart. They stayed hidden under the blinding haze of ambition and determination and taught themselves the ways of my heart. And in their final reveal they proved their knowledge of my soul’s fabric before it was even sewed. The threads know the patches and the imperfections in the weave. And in their inconspicuous existence, they appear to have become part of the fabric without being woven in securely. So, as they yank me out of stability, they uproot the truths that were buried deep. The weave comes loose leaving irregular patches and deformed patterns and the soul stands bewildered staring at this jigsaw puzzle.

The heart that was once sealed, and subsequently broken, and finally reassembled refuses to recognize itself. The soul stayed quiet for it let the heart lead with love, rage, hope, and pride. The heart needed to learn what the soul always knew. And even though the soul realized that when the heart does, it will be defenseless and exposed, it had no choice but to wait for an indefinite time.

I pick these truths off the disfigured fabric one by one, the threads are nowhere to be found, and the scars are smeared with fresh blood.