Holding the thread of a story.
Little Voice listened.
She waited.
Eventually...
Nothing happened.
There was no tug.
No resistance.
Nothing.
Little Voice laid down the thread.
She sighed and sat down.
This could take a while.
She watched.
Hoping the thread would do something.
Perhaps, she thought, it will stir in a little while.
Patience.
But nothing happened for the longest time.
She sat.
She watched.
She waited.
Except...
She pondered.
There is something happening to me.
It’s infinitesimal.
Almost nothing.
But I feel it.
She picked up the thread again.
Holding it carefully in her hands,
she closed her eyes and noticed
the changing tide of her low mood.
Ebbing.
Slowly, oh-so-slowly,
she felt the distant pull.
This story was shy.
Little Voice smiled.
It was a reassuring smile,
warm with encouragement.
She took a step further inside herself—
metaphorically speaking—
and waited some more.
There now.
It’s okay.
Take your time.
I’ll wait for you.
Come closer.
A cursor blinked.
A tiny Morse signal waiting for an answer.
Suddenly,
the observer became observed.
Who are you?
Little Voice wondered.
I can almost see you.
Who would you like me to be?
A voice.
Not her own,
but another.
It was soft.
Distant.
Almost incomprehensible.
A vague sigh,
like a soft breeze on a summer’s day.
It held mystery within it,
as if it were unsure.
Even of itself.
The thread warmed ever so slightly.
A deluge of images rained down,
and suddenly, Little Voice could see the tortured soul of this story.
It,
for she could not discern it any other way,
was hiding.
Megalithic stones soared upwards
and somewhere far behind them,
etched into the background,
indistinct,
crouched the protagonist of this thread’s story.
Little Voice felt an overwhelming wave of sadness consume her.
This story was ancient.
It was hide and seek.
This story was separate and alone.
Fearful of being found.
Desperate in its longing to connect.
Childlike and innocent,
yet somehow aged and withered,
it looked back at Little Voice
and repeated...
Who would you like me to be?
No one but yourself.
Little Voice sat
and sent the welcoming response.
Like a kiss on the wind,
it crossed the darkness
straight and true.
Reaching its mark,
Little Voice felt the thread tug a little.
Then release.
Time stood still.
The wait seemed endless.
A stand-off
where the story considered its options
and came up wanting.
I don’t know what to tell you then.
I lost my way so long ago,
and with that,
I also lost myself.
There is no story here.
I’m one of the lost.
There are others.
Not just me.
But we are all hidden.
No one wants to see.
And we don’t want to be seen.
A flourish of words filled with pain
hit Little Voice hard.
A slap.
Bitterness and misery
stung her cheek.
A defensive blow.
But the thread was now taut in her hand.
A passion tightening it.
It wanted release.
The Human Abstract
William Blake