Jun 2016
I've mastered the art of waiting.
To be honest, I never realized how much it came in handy, how piecing together every string of the tapestry slowly makes for a better picture in the end.
But to lovingly finger every strand, to stroke the silk audacity of each fiber of the thousands that make up only half of what it is I wish for is to be in an eternal chokehold formed by the knots of the very same cotton I once adoringly began to weave together.
No one ever said waiting was easy, but getting your three piece suit back from the tailor only to find a knot in the first row of stitches can be rather depressing. For the first mistakes will always affect the later ones- you have to unravel all the came after it to fix it.
So why is waiting so hard?
While I covet the strings that make your life whole, mine swing quietly from the branches of a forlorn willow tree, caressed only by the lonely breeze, while yours are wound up within the picture of another's life story.
This is a picture I will never behold in a perfect light- how can an audience see what the master artist truly intended to be seen? They don't know her thoughts, her passions, her history. They aren't aware of her lusts, thirsts, and secrets that hide between the strands of cotton twisted together so tightly that no one can see within. It's the viewpoint that makes the piece art.
And of course it's art. She's a part of it, the lifeblood of you will- she glows, beating the most beautiful heartbeat into the fabric, making it ripple with excitement and pain and longing all at the same time.
And I can admire from far.
As I've said, I've become a master at waiting.
I can sit and watch her tangle her being within someone else's and know that if I ever get a chance to weave my story within hers, I'll have a hell of a lot of untangling and unknotting to do. And even still, the threads that make her her will still be slightly frayed. The more use, the more fray appears, until we either and disentigrate into a powder that was once the pride and joy of a queen who loved her tapestries with all her heart.
But I am a master at waiting.
I will redye the threads that need it, let them air out if necessary, before even attempting to draw out a pattern in which to use them with the threads of my own I seldom share. I will wait as long as need be, for to let those threads be a part of my life's tapestry is to let a heartbeat pound my fabric into submission, into happiness.
She once said she'd never let me feel unhappy, because happiness is important, even though it might take forever to arrive, and that she was going to make it her duty to speed its journey on its way to me.
But I'm a master at waiting.
To be honest, I never realized how much it came in handy, how piecing together every string of the tapestry slowly makes for a better picture in the end.
But to lovingly finger every strand, to stroke the silk audacity of each fiber of the thousands that make up only half of what it is I wish for is to be in an eternal chokehold formed by the knots of the very same cotton I once adoringly began to weave together.
No one ever said waiting was easy, but getting your three piece suit back from the tailor only to find a knot in the first row of stitches can be rather depressing. For the first mistakes will always affect the later ones- you have to unravel all the came after it to fix it.
So why is waiting so hard?
While I covet the strings that make your life whole, mine swing quietly from the branches of a forlorn willow tree, caressed only by the lonely breeze, while yours are wound up within the picture of another's life story.
This is a picture I will never behold in a perfect light- how can an audience see what the master artist truly intended to be seen? They don't know her thoughts, her passions, her history. They aren't aware of her lusts, thirsts, and secrets that hide between the strands of cotton twisted together so tightly that no one can see within. It's the viewpoint that makes the piece art.
And of course it's art. She's a part of it, the lifeblood of you will- she glows, beating the most beautiful heartbeat into the fabric, making it ripple with excitement and pain and longing all at the same time.
And I can admire from far.
As I've said, I've become a master at waiting.
I can sit and watch her tangle her being within someone else's and know that if I ever get a chance to weave my story within hers, I'll have a hell of a lot of untangling and unknotting to do. And even still, the threads that make her her will still be slightly frayed. The more use, the more fray appears, until we either and disentigrate into a powder that was once the pride and joy of a queen who loved her tapestries with all her heart.
But I am a master at waiting.
I will redye the threads that need it, let them air out if necessary, before even attempting to draw out a pattern in which to use them with the threads of my own I seldom share. I will wait as long as need be, for to let those threads be a part of my life's tapestry is to let a heartbeat pound my fabric into submission, into happiness.
She once said she'd never let me feel unhappy, because happiness is important, even though it might take forever to arrive, and that she was going to make it her duty to speed its journey on its way to me.
But I'm a master at waiting.
