Weaving life

I wake up a sunny day but there’s a heavy feeling in my gut. The sun is bright, the day is promising and the summer weather should make me cheery and happy. 

But I’m not.

For an identified reason, I have this thought in my head and it’s practically carved in my brain refusing to let go. The feeling of life passing by. Like a wind swirling through buildings and tress, life seems to fall through cracks, roll down in the darkness until it’s lost or simply forgotten.  

I kneel down trying to take a peek between the cracks on the floor but I soon realize that’s it’s pointless. So I hold my breath and hear the sound of falling, the low whiff of air as life goes down, deeper into the blackness.

This is not right. This is not how it’s supposed to be and as I realize the brutal truth, the whiff vanishes. What does this mean? Did it reach all the way to abyss or did something stop the fall?

Then I remember that life is made of moments. Like small pieces of fabric stitched together one next to the other, creating a long piece of cloth. Some parts are colorful, while others are dark. Some are torn or they have faded in time but-that strange thing that looks too much like a rag- is our life.

So don’t hate the rag, don’t even call it a rag. If you don’t like it, don’t hide it in some trunk; don’t let some moth makes holes on it. It’s yours, so change it.

I look at my hands and realize that I’m holding a thread. This is what stopped the fall. I sit down and start pulling the thread up and as I pull through the cracks I end up holding a big, messy yarn.

So what I do?

I start weaving again.