Tapestry of My Life

March 11, 2009
By TwisstdPoet SILVER, Wilmington, Delaware
TwisstdPoet SILVER, Wilmington, Delaware
8 articles 0 photos 0 comments

I raise my hand, take a deep breathe, and press my fingers to the white page, a thin line of charcoal follows suit. Slowly, shapes form, lines, circles, shadows, spaces left blank and places so crowded there's not a spot of naked white page left uncovered. I draw what is unknown to others, things only my eyes have seen images only my mind has conjured up in life. And with the dull patience of children waiting out a storm, the image forms. I trace endless lines, and with them come the shape of my tapestry, unveiled for the world to see. I will tell you of this tapestry, if you can listen.
Imagine a strong brick wall stained with colors and confusion in the form of graffiti, someone's wall that they worked so hard to build up just splashed with gaudy, infectious paint covering up the true foundation. Next to it, a plain white room with walls of fine silk is silently dripping with insanity, so gently you'd never see it coming. Smiling faces, water running beneath bare toes, scraping your knee and laughing it off, dancing with flowers pure and clean as summer, all these things danced across the page. They created a simple ring of pure gold and dirty metal intricately winding around my life, holding it up, and binding it securely to the page. And so began my tapestry, weaved carefully by the nimble fingers of my mind.
A pale pink ribbon, the color of soft blush whispered with innocent pleasure through the strong yet velvety fabric that clung to the constantly twisting, slowly warping metal pole. Then bright sequins of a pair of shiny red shoes that sparkled in the never ending sunlight, playing tricks on your eyes, creating the illusions that could entertain for days. Sparkly sequined shoes that all the small children lusted after not knowing how the shoes fit. With time the sequins fell away revealing ugly, dirty black excuses for shoes that clung to her feet by fading glue. The sequins fell from my tapestry just the same revealing a revolting thing, so hideous you will never find the words to describe it, a hideous black plague infested with holes, and dripping with bloody red strings slowly unraveling. It ruined my tapestry, and sucked all life and color away, before fading into the background forever, leaving not but a few red strings grinning ominously in the wind. Then suddenly a thick rope wraps around my tapestry keeping it from falling away forever. The rope is strong, and beautiful despite many fraying edges that scar its fa'ade. It's made of things like dried flowers, grass, and mud, but you can see the solid platinum core beneath fraying spots. A rope that would never fail, tied with a knot that spoke measures, and played impressive pictures through your mind.
My tapestry was saved, but as a result, I had to rebuild it. Away went layers of rich silk, soft Egyptian cotton, and delicate laces. In its place was a plain, gray, thunderous storm cloud of thick wool, itchy and suffocating. A simple fabric, but a heavy one none the less, the kind of fabric people avoid at all costs. At the time, I was horrified. I detested this that was so foreign to me, and refused to accept the truth. But with time the colors began to show. They crept out of the shadows, and peeked brilliant heads from behind their shields, and one by one, decided to stop hiding.
Suddenly, a rainbow emerged, so overwhelming with color, all others dimmed in comparison. The rainbow wound it's way through the wool, and, held tightly to my tapestry. Soon, there was so much color, it began to drip and spread lovingly from person to person. That was the real beginning for me. The only beginning I'll ever remember. However, I never said it was your typical rainbow of colors. Oh no, my rainbow was made of all things that clashed, tore apart the stereotype of your typical rainbow, and from it emerged a word that some people will never understand. The rainbow of colors spat the word out, and it rained upon the world with an air of mystery, and a hint of power: unique.
My tapestry became one of a kind, something the world had never seen before. The sheer brilliance of it overpowered the dark black hole, still lurking behind everything else, creeping in between, and filling up the gaps. The black of insanity, and a lifeless past was forgiven, or more over, forgotten. A magnet made of unbreakable metal, and impossible to resist. That's the sheer force of my tapestry. A clean slate and a throne of gold to perch upon, and look down at the world with a blazing smile, and an overflowing heart, that was just the beginning.
As other colors were added, they created designs and patterns that brought about that word again, patterns better described as the hand prints of other people's lives. They were people with a wild gleam in their eye, but a heart of gold behind black shirts and neon hair. The handprints of their lives sank into my tapestry, and stayed there. They affected direction, and where specific colors crossed paths like traffic directors at the consistent green light that is me. But behind it all still lurks black; Black with an acid touch, and a suicidal smile. A blackness that hides behind my entire tapestry, but can never seem to get through. A blackness well acquainted with the fires of hell, and the drowning waters of death.
I wish to no end that I could rip this from the page, tear it into tiny shreds, and watch it whither and burn, but I cannot do so. Nor can I tell you if the blackness ever managed to slip in between the fibers of my life, for all I see now is dangling strings.
Strings of every color are all I can see. Some of them are soft and new, others are thick and old. A few of them are thin as a hair, and barely more than a vision, but no matter where I look all I see is strings. Some have knots, some are tangled, and some are bumpy and rough, but no matter what direction I look they are the only thing in my mind's eye. Not one of them is cut off, tied off, or weaved into any sort of pattern; they're all just dangling there in the unknown waiting for tomorrow to happen, and so I set down my hand.
I place the charcoal delicately next to the page, and start a new sheet. But this time I don't draw a thing. I just sit there and wait for my tapestry to continue.

The author's comments:
This is my unconventional autobiography.

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