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The Outfitter

Fragments of leftover cloth

adorn his floor.

Corners,

cut away,

to carve dimensions

into the

shapeless.


He enjoys it.

This process of measuring

and cutting,

nestles close to his heart.


The cloth feels akin to

his father’s long-lost capricious pride;

explosively pulsating at the slightest touch

into bouts of affective belligerence.

The cold scissors,

feel like his mother’s soft loving

sometimes sharp,

but only to trim

the excesses.


The scent of uncut cloth,

it's supple form;

reminiscent of his tender wife.

Love and hope,

familiarity and intimacy,

unfold into his senses

with each rendezvous.


Each color harbors

a hidden persona,

he coaxes out

with unwavering measure.


He smiles while he works,

contentedly.

Pauses of hard silence,

thin lips and furrowed forehead

In a fury of focus.


One stitch.

He can feel the shape

of his dreams.

Two stitches.

He can almost

touch his unborn daughter's

almost form.

Three Stitches.

His brother's uncontrollable outbursts

bring a frenzy to his pace.


Four stitches and Six.

His father's fraught tempers

mother's lukewarm approval,

and beloved's warm hugs,

crescendo into cacophonous melodies.

The cloth is now becoming another.

Maybe one

who hopes for an escape

into reality.


Seventh and he's

given the gift of fluidity to

the father who will now

dance unencumbered

at his son's wedding.


As the stitches go on

the music culminates

into a never ending strain.

His father, mother, wife, child

lay quiet,

finally permitted to rest in peace,

and the shapeless cloth

becomes a

tasteful companion.


A complete man.


He can rest now.


The pieces on his floor

are but vestiges of

corners cut,

while searching for that

which was trapped

and then let free.


And till another

comes to claim the man,

his shop won't be lonely.


Image courtesy: Somewhere off the internet and my thoughts.


What is the process of creation like? What do creators feel? What does a craftsperson think? Where do they find their passions? Where does art originate? What is art? How does the artist focus to create that which they can share? How do they think of it?


I don't have answers, but then, its often not answers we crave, but possibilities. In the midst of seemingly endless possibilities, possibilities oft seem to come to an end. If this is the mischief of the illusion of free will, or that of our minds, I know not. But all I know is till I survive, I will think of thoughts itself, to no end, but to dwell in the endless well of curious consciousness. For before the end, there will be a new beginning; and before the beginning, is thought.


Cogito, ergo sum.


Here's to you finding your own background scores, and your roles, as you enter the world of the one who crafts you a parallel identity through your apparel - The Outfitter.


Edit Credits: slightly edited and reposted basis feedback from a keen fellow-thinker: Thanks, K.

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