Illustration credits: Tejas Mohan
I am sitting on a stool, weaving threads into fabric. It has no form. It has no shape. It is just a piece of fabric in the making. And I'm not stopping. I'm weaving, continuously, hoping that I will figure out what it is in the process, hoping that some stroke of genius will help me decipher what it can be or maybe just wishing that it would take a shape, transform into something of its own accord.
I don't know the purpose with which I proceed but I'm not stopping.
The stool I'm sitting on might give in any second now, my weight too much for the old thing to handle, and for this reason, I am clutching onto my implements harder, as they will save me from an eventual fall, humming an unknown melody from the mysterious depths of my heart. This effortless weaving has me in a zone of zen.
I'm weaving, I'm dreading a fall, I'm humming.
The creaking noises from the stool inspire me to arrange my humming in a pattern. The Known, the Unknown, the Supreme, the Damned gathered around my surroundings to follow the loops of melodies that I’m repeating. The thought of the initial randomness shapes the intelligence of my weaving. Giving rise to a shape.
Nothing definite, yet something very real, something of utility.
And just as my stool gives another loud creak and slants to the left, I stop. I stop weaving. I take what fabric I have in my hand and tie it around the stool, regaining the lost balance and I feel safe and protected. I rock myself back and forth, on this stool that isn't quite fixed but this doesn't bother me as much as it should.
This success in spontaneity constructs my humming patterns to symphonies, and that is when the revelation strikes - I’ve been weaving love.