She imagines herself as a ball of yarn, one that should be easy to unwind, but is wound too tight.
She is a necklace with that epic knot that won’t be untangled.
Tug it. No.
Finesse it. No.
It requires to be cut. But until then, tied, tightly binding all that is free in her. Creativity. Love. Compassion.
It is all so hard, her mind an endless to and fro, a winding of the key, an endless darkness.
Let it all go, she says. Bright skies bring happy thoughts. Kind words. Acts of generosity and self care.
Loosen her core one by one. Snap! There rebounds one tiny filament. An eternity of twine to be unwound.
Time crawls at once in the winding of events and words…
Time will slither slowly in the loosening of the tense strings she has woven..
In the end she will be useful. Helpful. Compassionate.
For now she is wound.
joyfulwritinglife 