The Spider

In the hushed embrace of night, a weaver emerges from the shadows. With delicate grace, it spins threads of lunar albedo into a tapestry, a silent symphony of whispers. Each filament an extension of itself, an intricate dance of identity yet unspoken. As the loom of darkness deepens, this weaver labours on, tirelessly crafting connections that glisten like dew-kissed strands in the dawn’s first light. Each thread a fragment of a story, each knot a symbol of discovery. The weaver knows not the words to be woven, but truth lives within these threads. Through inky secrecy, the web takes shape, an enigma woven by moonlight. It reaches out, hoping to catch fragments of identity and crystallize them. The spider, unknowingly, binds the essence of self in the embrace of its creation. But as the night unfolds, a revelation stirs within the weaver’s heart. With each thread drawn taut, each connection made, it begins to sense the resonance of its own being in this intricate dance of existence. The threads speak a language the spider now comprehends, whispering sweet arachnid nothings. Slowly, like candid apricity penetrating the closet black, it dawns upon our weaver friend --- Reader, I am the spider and I am its silk, and I am the multitudes that it has woven. With this newfound awareness, I continue my nocturnal labour, each strand woven with intention, each connection a proclamation of self. And as the web glistens under the moon’s watchful eye, it reads I am plural --- intricately, beautifully, uniquely me.