the fabric of existence

In the heart of bustling Kabul, amidst the rushing crowds and perfume-spice infused air, at the very end of the winding alleyways, invisible and unreachable to those who look for it, sits an elderly woman.

She takes a sip of her tea and rummages around for her tools. The scent of cardamom tea mingling with warm wool and dried jasmine. Her gentle hands wrapped in wrinkles of whispered stories. She begins to hum quietly. Preparing. Preparing to stitch the fabric of existence.

Yours. Yes yours.

She plunges her hand into the patterned basket full of fibres and thread, pausing momentarily to ponder, yes, this is the one. The one she’ll use today. She inspects the thread, nimbly passing it through the needle and begins to weave.

You’re the thread of course. The central thread, the essence of it all. At least that’s what you tell yourself.

As she makes the first pass, you’re plunged into it. Speedily you criss cross through the ocean of fabric, winding and colliding with the neighbouring threads, interleaving and intertwining through it. Speed is the directive. You need to reach the end, a straight line. You fight and struggle, coming dangerously close to wearing thin, to being lost in it all and just when you’ve reached the end of your tether, there’s a pause.

You look around. You’re enmeshed. The threads either side of you, touching, holding, supporting. Each point of contact, a memory, a story, a blessing. Some a chance encounter, a fleeting whisper, others a longer embrace, but all connected. The perspective widens, and the tapestry sings. It echoes in an infinity of colour, the threads patterning the fabric in a radiant iridescence.

A wave in an ocean. A grain of sand on the beach. A thread in the fabric of existence.

The old lady flashes a subtle smile, as she reaches for the next thread. The central thread. The most important one of them all.