The Cloak...
The weight of the years feels heavier now; like wearing a cloak made of memories bound by the threads of time - I wish to pull one loose and unravel those pieces that still chafe against my soul. Is there still time to stitch silken patches to mend what still feels the chill? I reach for one loose strand— but which one to grasp? A surface thread, pale and almost free, a careful test that might fray only the outer weave? Or the deep one, dark and knotted near the heart, the one that holds the shape of everything that came before? If I pull too hard, will the whole cloak fall, leaving me bare to the years I thought I had outgrown? Am I ready for the cold that might rush in, or for the sudden lightness that could follow? My fingers hover, trembling between caution and courage. I ask myself, is it better to yet gather more about me as a buffer— another layer of careful silence, another fold of the years already lived— and not chance unwelcome exposure to the elements? The wind h...