Bedlam

I have my own truth. I know it is not what others see. I can draw it out in thread in moments when the calm descends. My needs are simple: light, cloth, thread, crewel-needle, cruel. If the calm is allowed, the clean can come and I can tease the muddled thread into one simple stitch. In, out, poke, prick, pull. I feel the tug of words forming.

            I like it when everyone minds their business. The stillness comes and I am the thread picking out my truth in diabolic code: poke, prick, pull, poke, prick, pull. 

William is not an unkind man, just a lost man. A man lost in words of his own, with a sense different to my own. I sit: poke, prick, pull, poke, prick, pull. Maybe the understanding can be unravelled.

            I can’t remember the beginning, it is buried deep, but when I sit like this, poke, prick, pull, and see another letter and another it can begin to shine. There is some hint of understanding. I can smell it. I cannot see the beginning ,but I fear that it will not end so I keep poke, prick, pulling.

            The stillness comes less often now. My needs are simple, but my desires are complicated. No one has to mind their business. There is no one who cares. I can mind my own business now. Just give me the essentials: needle, thread, cloth. I want to see the line not the fish, the fish not the shoal. Help me clean. Help me remove all the specks of misunderstanding.