Is there a thread of something missing on the fabric of my being? Or has this thread sewn me whole closing shut a void that was forever within myself?
How I look at a stitch has the nuance of silk. Fluid. Transparent. See through. This tear on my fibers can be repaired. With needle and thread I oscillate. Mending myself into opposite perspective: was I ripped open, or was I sewn together?
My reality is teared apart. All I am given is more thread. Never ending spool. I am weaving myself. Spinning. Spinning.