Twirling ribbon between fingers. Sometimes string. The intricate patterns create something that is distinctly unusual and an 'alternative' for a few hours. The way it twists so quickly, with delicate finesse. There is no matter with the colour, the focus is all in the never ending webs. Though should the activity be carried out in the daylight, you may notice the shades, how they seem to pale the more feverishly the fabric moves. Always pulling, testing the strength, but never so much as to make it break. One false move and, snap! That analogy for controlling your life is all too fragile to risk. It's a figurative representation, and the literal steps are forever unanticipated (no matter what one man says). But we cannot help the barbaric curiosity that the analogue infers. That nefarious manifest, lying deep in the subtly your question, "what if?". Though the tone might suggest us humans tend to present that phrase as more of a statement. We think we know so much.
"It's keeping me alive."
How do you describe your heart beat; Does it pound? Flutter? Do you lie down in the dark of night and hear a faint pulse? When you are so very proud, does it hammer louder than the mountainous workers finding diamonds in the peaks? Should it dance and tap in a rhythm that you can share with another? Is it a quick succession or does it softly murmur, unsure of what lies a head. Though affected, they keep us alive - most of the time.
To be tiny. Hiding a box, safe and hidden away from it all. The bones of you and how they fit together. Tracing fingers down your spine and feel every kink. The hollow times.
"It was toxic."
Though what is clear is that we get ourselves into some awful situations, traps or emotional webs. Your friends might suggest those settings were poisoned, in repetition of what you said yourself. If 'it was doomed from the start'. However, on latter self evaluation it becomes all the more likely that the venom belongs to us. Our own damned skin. Killing roses in a beautiful garden. It is a shame for everyone else. But the one that commits the crime should not be allowed to cry. Hair falling out all over the place, deserving no shoulder. Fainting in the shower. Hours lost to falling rain. Feeling the cold while sat in front of the fire. You cannot truly get what you do not merit. Though then it is rightful and just to consider that time killed those roses too. Let them wilt and die because it would not let those special nights last forever.
"It is time to go, dear darling."
There's a traveller in the distance and she does not know where she is going to be. There's no home laid out for her, because she keeps being forgotten, almost left behind. If gone now, would it be a while before anyone took notice. That was more of a statement than question.
I want there to be fireworks. I want to run into the dark, only to have it filled up by this magical light that burns so fiercely. To look in awe at the scene created around me. The way we all placed rugs and blankets under the trees and huddled round a fire. Switching sides to avoid the smoke, but also to huddle together. We would lie back as the sky grew darker and watch the twinkling lights swaying gently in the trees. That slight whistle became the night's chime. Then we would try and light candles. It looked so beautiful. A fairy grotto. Keeping warm, staying close and hearing the secrets we did not know we had. Our lips knew when to speak and when to hold their tongues. That delicate balance in listening to those you care about. We created our own safety and magic. It was golden.
We are so much older, now.