Life is like a garment—mine with a loose thread. Some sympathize this garment for falling apart at the seam, for a single loose thread that couldn’t hold itself as well as its contingents in place. I, on the other hand, celebrate this thread for what it is: a nod to my distinction, to the idiosyncrasies that formulate this life that I so proudly claim. Not only that, I often fiddle with this thread, run the fibers between the coarseness of my index and thumb, and I tug at it ever so slightly, every so often, simply to watch it further unravel.
My life is not falling apart. It is simply—unraveling.