Perhaps a best friend is a gold thread, an enemy woven in black; a wedding scene is worked in white and silver. Some threads are cut clean, and others struggle on in tatters. There are fond memories, vibrant, and some picked threadbare, the ones you would rather forget. And when you are a writer you can take strings from hundreds of tapestries and make a new one.
I've been writing for a long time now, but my tapestries are still unevenly woven, too-easily pulled apart. I will get better. As with all needlework, a practised hand is kinder.
I could steal your strings and become a puppeteer, or copy a pretty tapestry and go over it in thick dark thread. I can weave a silver strand through a night’s embroidery, or tear one away. It depends on how I feel.
Today I stole two threads, one from a girl I know and one from a girl in one of my classes. From my own tapestry I took another. So for Emma and Dans, thank you, and just to put your mind at rest it doesn’t mean a thing.
The best part about writing, I’ve found, is that what you write doesn’t ever have to be true.
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