Stitching with buttons & cookies (*)


Her hands were moving dexterously, not the faintest hint of hesitance in the unceasing patterns her pallid, nimble fingers weaved into the miscellaneous fabrics. Stitching. Yeah, she simply adored the practical work of repairing when broken, of securing when loose, of beautifying through dull mixing. 

“Is the same with humans, isn’t it?”, her best friend Marie, exuberant and unskilful with such patience-demanding activities, remarked, in an affected yet highly comprehensive tone. She patiently waited for Emily’s response, while removing some cigarette ash, blown by the afternoon breeze, from her Audrey Hepburn styled immaculate dress.

“I guess it might be, in some ways”, reserved Emily whispered cautiously while staring into her attentive eyes. Green as ripe grass, piercing as felines’. Always suggestive of simmering geysers, never of frigid waters, she thought. After a slight pause, she sighed deeply and added, with a strained voice now, “I mean, if they are damaged enough to need it. Isn’t with pride people talk about their scars, though? Even bleed them on purpose at times, to reassure themselves or others, of their unfading importance and immeasurable depth?”

After greedily taking a last puff from her expensive, cream coloured and potentially fatal stick, Marie replied, shifting her hips onto the mauve pillow that muffled the uncomfortable sensation of the high metallic chair,

“Well, you might actually have a point. Indeed, I don’t recall people saying much about regrets, often repeating robotically how they <wouldn’t change a thing> if they had the chance to go back. But that might be because they are damn frightened that by removing the nasty stuff they will be deprived of the good one that followed it, even if not related or interdependent. Or perhaps precisely because they know is impossible to travel back, they couldn’t change anything…”

She stopped as if rummaging to gather revelation, energy and the right words to share it all. As Emily was intendedly stretching her hands towards her over the ligneous table that separated them in the middle of this spacious, lavender-fragranced and laden with vintage furniture room, she then continued, with a considerably accelerated pace,

“…so, to bear their own burden of unwise choices, undeserved abuses and degrading circumstances, they must convince themselves of the imperative necessity of their blunders and others’. As imposed on them for their personal growth…when, in fact, much stuff done hastily and under immoral or random impulses, is solely selfish and ambitious. After all, you have to live with your self a whole life, must be lenient and forgiving about, guilt certainly isn’t a desirable companion! And regarding the others, being their nemesis isn’t pleasant either!”


The photo’s source

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