A tale tells itself. It’s yours or mine. Women between tan lines and crow's feet. A symphony for all that life’s been and the memories we carry. Threads of happiness and warmth made with people kept close to our hearts. Their vibrant yellows and festive reds, beautifully woven on the exterior of everyday greys, purples and greens. A homely comfort of a cup of tea and familiarity of walls in darkness. The fragrance of everyday cologne, merging with someone else. It's all baby blue, like the clear skies on bright sunny days, fulfilling the hollowness left by a dull routine.
It’s tightly knit going in circles. Making up the vast many pages of our mere human life, the exterior tunnels and coils firmly around the gooey core. The secret part kept deep, the darkest threads woven tightly of grief, of sadness, of despair. Protected from hungry eyes and sticky hands no wonder it’s surrounded by so much colour, meant to distract, to keep the center hidden.
But any story though is always meant to be read. If one sits with patience, they find the actual essence. A soft quite yarn of pale pink and white, of dreams of hopes still very alive. A secret told to nobody ever, but guarded with care nonetheless.
It’s the very thing that define you and me as human. Our dreams that we draw with our sticky fingers on the childhood walls. An ancient tale that tells itself which is meant to unravel and understood, which is meant to survive.