November 17th, 2019
She is still sitting, the weaver of infinity.
I could not recall exactly when she came to us; a few seconds, a few days, months, or has it already been a year? Maybe five perhaps. But I am sure that she came to us shortly after my eyes last perceived you: all but a moment ago.
Of course, I am certain that you remember this event well, therefore I am suspicious as to why I am recounting this memory to you now. Perhaps this is an attempt to let go, maybe to explain, to confront, to expand, or at the very least try to understand the absurdity of the incident that unfolded between us. Maybe this is an attempt on my part to evoke some sort of response from you since your silence has offered me no egress from the labyrinth of ourselves.
As you could probably recall, she was an edgeless being that plummeted into us; she, a shimmering pale mass of beige. Plummeted: that may not be the right word to use here, for others who saw the event beyond our perspective may contend that she didn’t, indeed, plummeted, but rather “descended into us,” a much gentler act. But from my own assessment, from the intensity and instantaneity of the way in which she arrived, I shall say she, indeed, plummeted. She plummeted to us, on us, and in us.
She plummeted into us and onto us, she labored. Pulling fine strings from the air, strings which glistened as they caught the lights of the world, she began to weave. Stitch by stitch, she weaved the waves of lights, the folds of the architecture, the space between the blades of grass. Stitch by stitch, she weaved the dying breath of summer, the fluttering wind beneath the birds’ wings. Stitch by stitch, the grains of sand between the cracks of pavement. We stood and we observed until the world between us shimmered within a single thread of light.
She then flickered a sigh of content and turned to us, her watcher. Without a word or a glance of acknowledgment, she took us by our hands and traced the folds of our skin. From the scabs of our imperfection, she sewed our crevasses until the porous wall of ourselves melted into a flickering sponge of light.
Now in all honesty, what really piqued my curiosity was the actions that followed: she let out a soft exhalation, sat down on the chair of her labor, and placed a brick upon her head. Not any particularly unique brick, neither gold nor silver, didn’t gleam or shine, it was just a plain old red brick that one can find on the side of a building. And yet, there she sat, on us and in us, with a brick atop her head.
Well, as I said, I am not quite sure why my mind now wanders this alley of our memory, these thoughts, the weaver on her chair, and you. Perhaps in some ways, there is an unseizable thread of light that runs between this memory and something beyond our correspondence, and that the weaver is still sitting and weaving, sewing the shape of this writing into her chair. Perhaps in some ways, these words of mine, invisible and undefined, are now yours. They are yours to sit with, to sit in, and to sit on. So, would you please lean back against the curvature of C, perch upon h, and find solace in the upholstery of silence between each sentence. Sit on this and claim me as your chair, if only for a moment.
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