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.