Blocked

The search began in winter. Tired of being in the shadows for long, the sun beats down on every bare back, and you are still in the look-out. When did you lose it? You do not seem to recollect. It is just a needle lost in a pile of hay. Where did the hay come from? Or had it always been there, just that in one careless moment you forgot to pin the needle to your sleeve? You want to be rid of this incessant train of questions but it keeps rumbling on,unmindful of all your existence as if you were just an insignificant speck watching it blur past you. What you really want is a glimpse of that slender piece of metal, so flawlessly straight.

Not everyone uses those. Some use it to mend a tear, to fasten a button or to lower the hem. Mostly it is taken to be the tailors' friend and slave. There are many who stitch for themselves; a handkerchief to mop a runaway tear, to muffle a naughty giggle, to hide a reckless gasp. You don't see it that way. You want it to draw pictures that adorn walls, pictures that cannot be washed away. With every stroke comes a minuscule puncture, leaves a mark, warding off innocence and ignorance one stitch at a time. Pull out the thread: impressions still remain.

As they listen to your laments they say that you can manage just fine with the sewing machine. Yes, it indeed serves the purpose, but lacks the inexplicable intimacy and you hate the mechanical artificiality of its every movement. The want to survive leads your feet inevitably to the peddle and your hand to the wheel. Yes, as they say you manage quite well. But each such step to survival appears to gnaw away a part of you. You watch the spools slowly disappear, one by one. The ones that remain seem to fade and gather dust. They seem like a band about to burst into a rendering, brutally silenced by a robbery that left them devoid of their voices.

As you think of the innumerable occasions when a kind few gifted you an encouraging nod or a smile, of approval, recognition, admiration even, you ache for the needle. You want to be out there, seaming on rationality to cognizance all the while dazzling the world with colors it has not yet seen, drawing notes of awe for your handiwork. As you continue your pursuit, a hope remains, hidden deep, for some light and a multi-colored thread.