Heartstrings by Emily Chopra
T
hese tiny little threads define us. Wrap us. Twist us. Intertwine us. Taut they pull to wind us. Test us. Hold us. Firm they bind us. Time and time again, others crawl in. Threads from people we have seen. Around our threads, they creep and spin, send our minds reeling to what could have been. “Or what we could be,” our thoughts remark. Our threads betraying their master heart. The alien threads knot our insides. Woven into the fibers, they hide in plain sight. Our body struggles with concealing; the outsider threads evoke too many feelings. Yet, our own threads stayed put while theirs came in seeping. One
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tied to another, but the other so bold, they never experienced quite the same hold. Apathetic and aloof, the other passes with no comment. Shock and anger then strike with a vengeance. Confusion and woe arise with great might. Suddenly, the foreign threads are expelled. Ripped from their prey, unwound, and repelled. But fragments remain, buried deep within. Despite the pain that cut them so thin.
Self-destruction is the only option remaining to silence the inner soul’s wailing. The parasitic strands evaporate into thin air leaving their host a jumble, fumbling in despair. Chopped to pieces, the threads no longer do their job. Defeated, their master’s a bumbling slob. No longer strong and steadfast. No longer sure of oneself and built to last. Broken and beaten and torn up inside, we retreat to a cave by our bedside.
No longer can our own threads be spared. The outsider made sure it was not fair. They go off joyous, jubilant, and jesting. We remain jealous, judgmental, and jeering.
Slowly and steadily the wounds stitch together. Threads start reaching out, attempting to make things all better. They wind back up, hopefully forever. They’re optimistic for what the next day will bring, until another thread slithers in and does the same thing.
One by one our threads snap. They rip. They tear. They unwrap.
