Stitching Time

I am a poor tailor of time. My fingers fumble with the delicate fabric of moments, trying to weave coherence from chaos. But the measurements elude me, slipping through my grasp like sand. The cloth always falls short, leaving frayed edges and unfinished seams.

Pockets of hours, those tiny sanctuaries, mock me. They are too small, insufficient for the grand designs I envision. I stitch them together, patchwork-style, hoping to create a quilt of purpose. Yet, the threads tangle, forming knots of uncertainty. My routine becomes a labyrinth, a maze of missed stitches and dropped needles.

And in this weaving, there is a strange consolation. I have not cut my fingers on the sharp edges of seconds. Self-preservation, perhaps. But what am I preserving? A fragile existence, stitched together with borrowed time.

So I sit, surrounded by spools of yesterday’s writing. Each word a thread, each sentence a seam. I spin tales of nostalgia, wrapping my dissatisfaction into the bones of every bolt. The loom creaks, and I frown at the uneven tapestry before me.

Ill-fitting tomorrows await, their patterns uncertain. But I am the tailor, flawed and persistent. I’ll keep stitching, hoping that someday, my hands will find the perfect fit—a seamless garment woven from the warp and weft of existence.

May your tomorrows be beautifully tailored.

Copyright ? Beatriz Esmer