Fraying

I can feel the unraveling, the edged fraying of attention caught. The ends are pulled lightly, a gentle tugging at my awareness; the extent of the progress unknown until my peripheral consciousness catches site of the streaming threads that once made whole the fabric of my daily life.

The signs are evident, often external. Antique heirloom rose vines removed, roots and all, from the front of the house and laid to rest upon the ground – an earthy wake to honor the seemingly arbitrary death of an entity nursed into full life over a span of at least ten to fifteen years.

But not all external – there are the small forgets. Keys left in cars, books left behind.

Here, your feet can touch bottom; the deep waters so often cultivated, a density of self-protective confidence and directed attention, are not so deep anymore. Better the dark waters, the mysterious waters filled with undiscovered danger, than the hard metal bottom your feet scrape against when you have sunk too low.

At least – this is what you think. But it is not melancholy that you feel. The water has the iron taste of desperation.

It is your own fault; you invited it in. An old friend, an intimate confidante. Chaos. The bottom you feel is false. The rust you imagine is scrapings your freedom have bought, freedom raked against the choices that make you doubt.

No place for regret, here. The unraveled threads serve other purposes. You weave some into a scene depicting her face first on the floor, hands bound in leather against the small of her back, her bared ass raised. There are hues of humiliation in this scene, the red of violence, the pink of sensitive flesh. You could not have drawn this scene without the freedom that so unbinds you.

You have no fear, just trepidation and excitement, as you wait to see what will unravel next.