Fabrics of the Soul

A wave amongst the ocean belongs amongst the ocean. Waves, in an intricate dance. They do not compete in their rise, nor do they resent their falls, honouring them as part of their essence, their rhythm. They uplift one another – empower one another to reach for the skies, embracing, braiding, merging as one: connected – yet never losing the distinctness, the uniqueness of each individual. Leveling, bowing back down again: the wave rests amongst the ocean.

It is harmonious – this law, a divine expression of oneself. Forever diverse; never demanding – equal, free, belonging

So, when this law is broken – uncherished, unrecognised – consequences arise.   

Some compete and judge. While others, mask. Feeding the world desperate proofs of their worth – they wear thick concealing layers: modifying, rearranging, combining, into newly-formed creations. Is it not painful? This loss of voice, a loss of self… so integral, yet forgotten.

But what about a time before this loss? If only I had the support, the wisdom to guide me back then.

Looking back, I now hold the truths to understand. Every act of dismissal deeply roots within a child. Its effect, invisible at first, accumulates over time. It remains hidden, until a single, insignificant moment uncovers its depth and unravels this child bare. Because something as mundane as being refused a felt-tip-pen isn’t enough to make a child cry. It would be strange, petulant for the maturity of a child nearing a decade in age. Knowing the shy, withdrawn nature of this kid, it’s even stranger for this child to walk in bursting into tears in the middle of this busy classroom, calling for the eyes of her teacher and classmates in a distrustful current of attention.

They rush to her side, soothing her in this moment. Some placate her, proposing a felt-tip-pen because of the incident prior. She cringes. ‘How could that be the sole cause of her crying?’ Internally, she hopes they don’t think so lowly of her. But to them she gives no response. They need not know.

“I’ve never seen her cry before,” someone comments. She becomes aware of her current position, her classmates encircling around – now wearing welcoming gazes. Their tainted warm gestures seep through her, permeating within, recoiling throughout. Any other day she would want to run. She feels she should be embarrassed. She feels she should be anxious. How is she not afraid? Standing here now, engrossed by the onslaught of her breakdown, she is surprised to find she feels nothing; as if, steadily, she had been hollowed from the inside out.

An art palette decorates the table she sits at, belonging to her friend. This palette contains felt pens, perfectly sequenced – the rolling notes of a xylophone; a rippling design: line by line, of exquisite nature. A symphony of colours shine, where shades melt and blend in a cascading stream of hues. They allure the child deeply – she, attuned to her artwork. She yearns to ask, but struggles, how could she? They, advanced, premium; she, too small, too timid to ever pave her way. So, she leaves the pens to their guardian, her friend.

Seeing this guardian, however, sparingly grant the pens to careful classmates, gave her a new-found confidence. She studies them, envying the easiness, the directness of their exchanges. No hesitation, simply receiving. So, the child asks this keeper, kind and inclusive, who invites her to wait in line.

She had always been cautious in her requests, calculated, on the rift between aching for meaningful attention, yet unwilling to be perceived at all. Despite this kindness, she is suspicious she will receive her wish.

She remembers herself minutes earlier, engrossed in perfecting her art. She is wary not to wear down the shared, scarce water-brush-pen supply. Lest her peers denounce her. So, she presses light. And it is understood – expected – that, indeed, she will not become the brush-pens’ defiling. So, she is even warier. Everybody else draws freely. But she, hovering her wrist above, the filament hardly stroking the paper, she draws. A pixel length of the fine tip arches. The brush scarcely makes lines, and like that, she draws awhile...

Around her, the classroom fades. The passage of time stills. She, still; her hand swirling, she creates…

She does not expect the brush to be slightly blunt after her trance. She is so sure it must have been picked that way. It wasn’t her doing – couldn’t be. Shouldn’t be. Mustn’t be. Did her hand waver? Maybe. She was so cautious. Yet the brush lies in her hand.

Now, anticipating her place in line for alluring, exquisite felt-pens: she strives to complete her art – to enrich it through them at least. Progressing, for now – drawing well and properly with the blunt one, the other brushes within her reach. The lesson end is imminent. She buries the thought of the brush in hand, evidence – but no use: she feels herself synching.

She recognises it too intimately – a sealed pattern – its path constricting. It closes in.

Her place ripped from reaching hands. Her place slipping far beyond reach – too far. Her breath tightens. The keeper-friend, oblivious. Classmates withhold felt-pens: she, deemed unworthy of exalted pens, reckless – utter unworthiness. Time loosens. So for it she chooses to set aside her art, laying down the blunt-brush mid-stroke. Then she grapples for her place. Time ripples. Her breathless pleads feign restraint. Spoke: brush-wreck, defiled. Their barrier placed between her and elite pens, quiet, unmoving. With her cherished art set aside, she implores, achingly, mutely. Time dwindles. Pens passed seamlessly amongst others, she scans, fervently, stifled.

Pleads halted; pens forbidden – the lesson ends; her art lies unrealised.

She is amongst the few dismissed to their lockers to store their art, while brushes within reach lie, untouched, unattended, across the table. She, a receding tide, swallows her bitter disappointment – her art, severed; her barred ache; her submerged voice. Chest heavy, she binds the event amongst a cluster of others. A curse, etched within her very being, weaving together the fabrics of her soul, threading thick concealing layers.