The Fabric we wrap ourselves in 

It’s the things we never say out loud for the fear of them slipping into something else, something it isn’t or wasn’t. It’s the wordless thoughts that are conjured by looking into a fire or the tender recollection of a dream upon waking. How the weight of your dads favourite jumper, or Pa’s blanket wrapped around your small body warms with an emotional heat that keeps you safe and takes you back in time to when days were simpler. It is more about the feeling than the seeing. The way nostalgia taunts with the reality of time. 

It is seeing without sight, wrapped in the gift of something more quiet, more silent, more subtle. However it takes more than just one moment to preserve the very heat and motion of life. It is a woven few oscillating between forwards and backwards. At times it’s like a hole or deterioration and other times it is clear, solid and moving forward. In the same way that things get worn or tarnished, the feet of statues when devotion calls for repetitive touch, or photographs of warm dirty hues are folded and unfolded, or clothes getting worn in at the knees and elbows from hugging and bending. 

It is these things in the tarnishing of love that retreat back and pull forward until you’ve no idea where anything is placed, a foggy displacement. It’s the putting something down just to take traces of it away. Mirroring how the act of remembering shifts the memory itself, tainted by perspectives, moods and realities of time. Instead it is flashes of impressions or suggestions rather than explicit somethings that are malleable and yet necessarily in your control. It is learning to be better at waiting and that whispering is more efficient than yelling. It is the restless curiosity of believing in the lost innocence that a jumper and blanket can shield you from the cruelties of the world. 

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