There are some days when reality
feels like a thousand threads
woven together,
and some areas are thick and woolen and strong,
while others are weak
and so thin that
you feel as if you could pry your fingers
between the fibers
and rip apart
time.
On days like that, when
reality is fraying around me,
I question what’s real; if the
threads holding together the universe
can be easily snipped,
or if the seams can be re-sewn
and stitched up
again.
Because most days, reality is
a blanket that surrounds me,
and I can feel it between my fingers
and it’s good and sturdy and warm.
But I still fear the thin patches,
the torn hems and rough pleats,
and cling hard to my
blanket
so that I don’t
slip.
Stellular Scribe 