The floor beneath me is carefully knit, but closely sewn in some parts. I walk in step with it, blue above, but a leg falls through. Sometimes, I begin. The weave before me though, is a labyrinth of mystery and adventure and rips my attention back. With what needle will I tighten the patches? Pull them back close together so nothing can get through? Or do I learn to jump when one approaches, to skirt, to walk and dance at the same time? But fog clouds my eyes and I step into loose threads. My leg crashes down and breaks in two places. And as I pull it back, I see the stretched yarn and see it has trouble reshaping, going back to how it was. Maybe I will just sit down with my legs crossed for awhile, only breathing. With collapsed lungs and tinted glasses. Just for a little while. Silent, mute. And grow a mountain inside. I can’t orchestrate movements, I can only offer me. Tu n’as pas compris: I may look small, unmoving, but somewhere deeper, infinity stirs. And something spins at light speeds, inside.
