Threads of Time

one thread unravels quietly from the cuff of yesterday— loose and golden, tugged gently by wind or memory. another thread, silver-fine, winds forward into what might be tomorrow, still unwoven, still soft with silence. time does not run; it is stitched— moment to moment, strand to strand, through every glance, every breath, every choice you never realized you were making. there are knots: places where two lives touch and tighten. places where the pattern breaks, frays, forgets itself— and others where it mends with color. the past is not gone; it is threaded through you, hidden in the seams of your skin, tucked in the hem of your voice when you say their name. you walk wrapped in stories you don't remember telling, stitched tight with the hands of those you never knew. (and still, somehow, you knew them) the threads twist— through journals and old songs, through maps and postcards, through laughter echoed across generations— they pass through rings, through cracked clocks, through names etched in notebooks and photographs. time does not move forward. it weaves. in loops and overlaps, in tangles and designs we can only see when we stop and trace with wonder. so pull a thread, any thread— and feel the hum of centuries beneath your fingertips.