it seems so perfect, so soft, so luxurious, it’s colour vibrant, it’s presence so promising.
this treasure, this wonderous thing.
it’s threads all wound up in military perfection, a system, pull gently and it will yield. it will release itself to you and you then have the privilege of turning this potential into reality. you can weave it anyway you choose, you can craft the most glorious thing anyone has ever seen, just by your choice.
it is an amazing gift, and you cannot wait to get to work on it.

so you pull at it, ever so tentatively, and it comes easily, it gives itself to your whims. you work it, it gives and yields like a willing lover, it turns and twists in your hand. you have absolute control.

then suddenly it stops, there is a knot, a small tangle of trouble.
you gaze at it, perplexed, it was supposed to be perfect, and it isn’t.
but you are not dissuaded in your quest, you work the tangle out as lovers brush each others hair. there. it’s perfect again.
you pull again, knitting the threads of it all up into the beginnings of something astounding, something powerful and full of meaning.
but, alas, another tangle, this one bigger and more ornery than the last.
it confounds you, it frustrates you. you tug and pull and cry and scream, but it doesn’t give. you sigh, despondent you sit back with the mass of this proported perfection in your hands. you glare at it.
then suddenly you see it, the problem, it’s right there, and so you fix it.
and all is alright again.
not the glowing perfection it once was, but still beautiful and silky and so full of promise.
it’s edges and threads a little broken and frayed, but still more that sufficient in which to weave your dream.

you carry on, your heart full of the desire to see the finished work, you have dreamt of this, you cannot wait to beam to all around you ‘I did it, see? I knew I could, I knew I was good and strong and worthy’.

then the cat comes, it swats at your miracle, it claws it, licks it, takes bits in it’s fangs and mangles it, causing it to break. you draw in a breath in shock and horror.
no, no, no! you cry, you look before you at the mess it has become.

broken, frayed, tangled, wet, sloppy, mess.
so far from perfect, so far from even sufficient.
how can you weave anything close to miraculous from this?

you sit back and sigh. you throw your tools down.
you throw the soggy mess away from you, as far as you can.
it has now become unusable. worthless.
you have to make a choice.
salvage what you can, or get a new one.
salvaging will take so much time, effort, hope, and endless detangling.
a new one will give back hope, instantly, it will be easy, smooth, tangle free.

sure, there will be the effort of foraging for it,
finding such a precious gift, twice, is rare, unheard of.
but it is a small price to pay, just to feel perfection’s promise again.

you get up, and you walk to the door.
you do not look back at the tangled mess on the floor,
you do not look back at the cat, gleefully chewing the last shreds of promise
you do not look back at anything.
and you shut the door behind you.