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On the Seam Line

Between wills. Walking. On the most delicate spot of connection, between today and yesterday, between the young me and the adult. A whole life exists in the invisible gap, between good and bad, truth and lie, imagination and reality.

Step by step, only on the thin lines between the sidewalk’s stones. Balancing my left to my right.

Concentrating all of my wills into this thin gap, only held by an even thinner, unstichable thread.

I always remember that it can be undone.

On the seam line, where most of our lives, usually or actually always, are created. From sheets of fabric and of time, being woven into one another, compressing the essence of ideas into cracks and narrow paths. Clinging to each other, never to be parted. But sometimes they do part. Sometimes, seams also have regrets.

There are places where seams create merges unimagined before – so happy and so sad at the same time. Pain meeting beauty, sadness over joys that come from loss. All hold the memory of unchosen connections. Left aside, in the depths of a sketch book or the studio floor. Those that were almost, only almost, perfect. On the seam line.


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