There are moments in life that pass so quickly, before you can even think to blink, that will never come back to you. Other moments linger forever like a stain on your soul. Both are important - they make you who you are. Each person’s tapestry is full of these and you wrap that quilt around yourself like a shield against the world. Sometimes, you’ll pause and look at all of those squares - the memories that are fading and ripping at the seams.
Some people will live a long life. One hundred years. Eighty. Some will be cut short in minutes in one of those tragedies that you can’t ever process. I’ve thought a lot recently about where my life will take me, and I’ve analysed my inner tapestry like a work of art hanging in a museum that only I can visit. My fingers slide past the changing materials, they get caught in loose threads and in the holes where my recollections are failing me. The picture isn’t as clear as it once was. Now, the colours that shine brightest are the ones I don’t want - how can this be the reflection of myself?
Not everyone has the luxury of believing they will live forever. Too many things, once promised, are no longer certain. This is not an exercise in pessimism. This is only about realism, and the knowledge that life ends regardless of a person’s hopes and dreams. People talk about legacies which I feel are outside of my own grasp, not for lack of trying, not for lack of care, not for lack of dreams, but just because I am tired. I am already tired.
People think I’m bleak when I say I don’t want to live until I’m old. They say it’s my mental health, that the depression I live alongside has tainted how I perceive. Perhaps my tapestry has been stitched with black threads but that doesn’t make it less beautiful. I still have colour. I still burst free in vivid reds, in yellows, and greens, and blues. The canvas in my mind is private. I don’t have to share the images that make up who I am, and when I do it becomes faded by the judgement of others who can’t see beauty outside of themselves.
My body is failing. I feel it in the morning when I can’t move - when pain hums through my bones like a low electrical current, and the fatigue weighs me down as though my muscles are laced with lead. Each movement demands a repayment until I’m falling into debt. Sometimes it is like floating in the wind. Forever paused. Knowing that, should I push through those walls, I will lose time on the other end. Every moment that I grab my energy, my determination, my frustration, my desperation, I have to make a choice; do I want to live more right this second, or do I want to live longer? Forever paused. Do I want to run through the park or do I want to watch my son get married? Do I want to walk through the lanes I did as a child, or do I want to see my grandchildren? I don’t want to choose. I pause.
Staying alive is not passive. I feel myself fading in the mirror with each passing day, as though I am no longer a participant. I am a spectator in life. A witness. Life glitters past me in glorious high definition, but I can’t touch it. My life is at a different frequency where the sounds don’t transmit. Perhaps I am more like the swan who glides seamlessly but paddles beneath the depths, pushing through the water in its own private struggle.
Should I have a dream? Should I want a legacy? My greatest achievement will always be the life I brought into this planet, despite my crumbling body, and even with the cost of it all. His life bursts colours that mine could never create. His tapestry will be one of his own. Perhaps I will be a square on the blanket that protects him as I help him to stitch those first few memories and build the foundation he will one day look back on. Yet, I still pause. Will my colours leak into his? Will I taint those squares that are so precious and shining?
Internally, I throw paint at the walls. I slam my fists against the confines of my own mind and scream for the exit. Sometimes I grab my tapestry and pull - I want to rip out the squares; I want to throw it into the depths of the ocean; I want to make it shine like the lives of everyone else. Those tears, in those moments, are lasting. I look back in regret at the newly formed holes and wonder if I can ever be repaired.
It’s ok. Just breathe. I can perceive me as who I am - I don’t embody the perceptions of others. Comments are thrown at me as though they can touch my soul. People reach out to touch my tapestry, and my inner canvas, as though my inner self is up for grabs. Don’t they know the museum is closed? Please don’t touch the exhibits. I slam the doors in their face to block out all the noise. In the silence I remind myself: just breathe.
My life is behind the glass. The sun rises in yellows, and sets in shades of pink. Time loses meaning. Forever paused, but the hands still reach for me and try to pull me into a life I used to live. For a while, I will follow, and soak up all those colours in the hope of adding to myself. Sometimes, it works. My soul soars just watching others build their tapestry. I smile.
Another pause. There is a path laid out in front of me and I’m walking it alone. Every person who loves me lights the way like a star in the sky so I am forever grateful not to be left in darkness. On my way, I wonder which parts of myself could be classed as the best. There are years and years and years ahead of me. Is my best already gone? If my canvas stays locked up within myself, will there be anything to remember me by?
It’s ok. This truly isn’t an exercise in pessimism. My path is more like a maze of mirrors and with each turn I face a different version of myself. I reach out to touch, but that person no longer exists. I’m searching for my true reflection. I’ll find it soon. Then, I will paint a new canvas, even if I’m paused, even if the colours don’t shine so bright anymore, and I’ll throw open the doors so everyone can see it. Then I’ll breathe.
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