I’m unraveling. I remember being whole, but now I’ve been pulled apart and laid out for people to step over, or step on. I am not a path to follow, I never was. Before, while I was so tightly wound I could easily give the illusion that I was here to serve a purpose. But now no one would begin to expect that I mattered. Even I know I’ve let things get too far out of hand, my own existence torn away, my body collapsed, pushed brutally around this square room in which my life has run its course. What am I? Who am I? I hear that I have relatives, survivors, high and mighty. Those of us that someone has found a use for, some of us have a more noble fate, then I who has fallen victim to the mighty gray hand and been ripped by the sharpest nail. There was once a dream for me; at least that much can be said in my case. It may not have been a dream of my own, but at least someone had the courtesy to create one for me. A red hat was the plan of the elderly woman who picked me up from the super market store. She’d learn to knit, she thought. But after a short time of flipping through instruction books she never learned to use me to any extent of my potential. So now, I am stretched across the carpet and a tangle of my remains resides below a grungy orange sofa; all thanks to a fat gray cat that didn’t get out enough.