The Thread That Wasn't There
when the world speaks in riddles, do you listen or do you let go <3
She's always felt there was a pattern; invisible threads weaving people's lives into some intricate design too delicate for the blithering ordinary eyes to catch. The chaos would never capture her nature; it was such a delicate symphony of meaning, such a secret language whispered in the medium of every changing shade of shadow and flicker of light. Every look, every repeated word, every single face she would see twice in a day had deeper meaning than mere chance. Nothing was random, and every moment contained an answer to an intricate riddle she was determined to solve.
Mira was always intrigued by such connections, rooted in her earliest memories. On one of those quiet afternoons in her childhood, she'd sit by the window, observing sunlight dance upon the garden walls. One lovely midday, a fiery red cardinal landed on the window ledge, flew into the wide open, and took off in the direction of some pattern that almost looked too calculated to be coincidental. To a wee Mira, that tantalizing moment was a portent—a secret sign communicating that the universe was talking to her.
Those erstwhile days were pure magic. But as she began to grow, that magic evolved into a fevered quest. Mira began to see a world teeming with symbols. An offhand recital of a poem by a teacher, evocative of a line murmured by her grandmother, became intentional signals of sorts for her; a stranger on a train humming a tune from her dreams became a signpost of fate. The thrill of these realizations, at first, afforded her the confidence that maybe she was chosen—the privilege of glimpsing fast, operatic glances of forsaken workings within facts.
But, as the years went by, her inability to pursue beauty in those connections led Mira into an excess. What had once fascinated had turned into an incessant need to decode every detail and nuance of living. An unreturned text message was no longer a benign gap in the conversation but rather the harbinger of a turning in the day's energy that suggested a kink in the unfolding truth yet unknown. Gradually, this endless chase began fogging the very act of living itself.
The more Mira chased after those elusive threads, the farther away the present receded from her. Laughter no longer flowed instinctively; each chuckle seemed an invitation to decode for meaning. Once, her friends and loved ones were palpable beings, not mere abstractions functioning in her immeasurable equation. That memory, sweet and poignant, offered a strong juxtaposition between effortless spontaneity in her yesterdays and the clinical detachment that ruled her today.
On a clear autumn evening, as the last golden rays of sunshine washed over the dark indigo of the city skyline, Mira sat at a small, dimly lit café. The room hummed with muted conversation, the soft strike of porcelain upon porcelain, the murmurings of an adjacent piano. But all Mira followed was the slow and languorous twirl of tea leaves in her cup, like the conflict whirling around in her own head.
That laughter—a child's untainted joy—free of the analytical eye and intent, offered her a very distant and chilling connection to perhaps faded and forgotten memories of sunny carefree days and untroubled smiles. That moment thrust Mira from her seat, her heart thudding with hope and fear. A familiar grounding touch had her wrist. It was Daniel, the friend who had tried so long to get her drifting spirit anchored. "Mira, where is it you go when you do that?" His kind question penetrated the haze of her obsession. There was a long moment of suspension when she searched for words but found a gaping emptiness where certainty had once dominated.
That night, walking with Daniel along rain-soaked streets beneath a canopy of dazzling city lights, he told her a simple story about an artist he had met in the street, a man who painted murals without ever explaining what they meant. "Sometimes," Daniel said softly, "the beauty is in the mystery, not in dissecting it." Those simple and unpretentious words spoke deeply to her, exposing her to a life free from constant analysis.
However, that sleepless night, locked in solemn solitude in her very small room, Mira faced that remnant of the obsessive past. Before her was a corkboard decked with clippings, photographs, and cryptic notes—each a relic of her endless chase for meaning. With shaking hands, she started tearing that prison of symbols down. One by one, she prised every last note and trinket off, watching them flutter away like fragile autumn leaves caught in a breeze. Finally, she placed a tender kiss on the now-empty board—a silencing, searing goodbye to the compulsions that had once defined her being.
In the morning, the dawn spilled softly through her window as Mira awoke and no longer had a heart that expected every passing moment to yield some kind of insight. Each step through the bustling street emphasized the rhythm and unexpected cadences of life with its spontaneous laughter and unbidden tears—and raw, unfiltered beauty.
"I am learning to just be, without searching for secrets," Mira said. The neighbor's nod and wide smile, coupled with a brief exchange with a nearby barista who added, "One should live one moment at a time," conveyed to Mira that every living moment is a gift that is supposed to be experienced and enjoyed, not solved.
Thus it was that Mira continued on her journey through a life rich with fresh, uncomplicated wonder—always holding within herself, a quiet, unbreakable truth: that every moment is a miracle to be treasured, not unfolded. The threads she once chased had become the gentle reminders of life's fleeting beauty, not uncrossable barriers. With every step, she met the present step by step—light in the soul, free in spirit—more ready to do life fully and, therefore, beautifully unpredictably.
~penned by Sagun Gupta
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