Every time I write I slowly come undone. Unraveling on a page from a beautiful handmade cable-knit, crafted by some old woman who lives in a small cabin on the jagged coast of Ireland, to a tangled distressed gnarl of yarn on the floor waiting to be swept.
But my lust for life and love keeps the broom at bay. And so at the end of every day the old woman picks me up and straightens me out. Wrapping me around her withered hand she relieves my knots and makes me smooth and workable again. Then by some miracle of sheer love or luck I get rewoven into some new masterpiece.
Only to come unraveled when I hit a snag the next day.
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