Threads

Prose by Lillie George, Co-Director

I am 14 now. Time is slipping by, loosening into a confusing mess of threads. I try to grab onto a single thread, but each time I grasp it, the others tangle themselves tighter and tighter. They spin themselves around me, some of them weaving into perfect patterns, others engaging in a chaotic dispute between authenticity and temptation. 

I am 15 now. Time is slowed, blurred. The threads have gained even more colors; there are reds, yellows, blues. Some girls have knitted the threads into scarves and hats. They flaunt their handiwork. I watch in envy.

I am 16 now. I feel dizzy from watching the threads as they weave themselves in and out of patterns. They never solidify; rather they group and re-group. I decide I will join the cross country team.

I am 17 now. I have found a pattern that suits me, and I wear it every day to school. The thrill of the run and camaraderie of a group of girls that understands me have successfully filtered out the darkest of colors.

I am 18 now. A soon-to-be graduate, a girl untangled. With their help, I have straightened out the mess of threads and, with a final tug, woven them into a mural.