I sit.
Unravelling.
The tangled ball of string of my mind.

Deconstructing.
Quiescent.
Patience required.

Each tangled knot a memory, some faded, tattered, complete, with sepia toned edges.
Others more distinct, recognizable, the patterns skim read by featherweight fingertip touch.

Some knots I unpick, only to find the dust thus gathered makes me sneeze.
Some I leave untouched, intact, old haunts best left alone for fear of unleashing the malevolence which lies within.

I stare at the wreck of fray and twist, and despair at the plethora of turns repeated, but maybe linear thinking was never destined to be part of my construct.
A contradiction by design, no straight road ahead for me.

Contemplation.

Maybe I need a new ball of string?