Dream sheep didn’t know the word ‘lonely’, or ‘alone’, let alone that he’d ever live in a vaccuum that confused the two concepts. What he did recognise, in both words actually, was ‘one’. That he sure was. One. One of a kind. And kind. But enough with the play on words here. We got a scarf to discover.

A while ago, dream sheep remembered, we knitted a scarf, not for any particular purpose but to knit. And when we ran out of wool, we bought new yarn. And when we ran out of grey color, we bought pink. And when the pink was ‘op’, as Dutch would say it, we were done. And that’s how scarfs are made.

Dream sheep knew that is also how scars are made. You run into life, for no particular reason, and when you hit a dead end, or the dead end hits you, you bleed, you turn and you start anew. Sometimes with a new color: blush.

The bleeding would trace him, though, like the bread of Gretchen and Hanzel did, but now as a shiny red reminder to never take that road again, as if the traffic lights forgot their memory of green that said go.

And when he did go back, the blood would cling to him, as if its life depended on him walking over it and it would silently start witnessing where he went from his dead end.

The more he tried running from his mistake, the messier things got. Dream sheep shuddered thinking about the years that he so violently walked around in life. He tried hiding in our scarf.

And when dream sheep felt safe in the world we knitted, he described to us the roads that he took and ran from.

From above it must have looked like a metro system, he said, going places, getting people from and to their destination. Sometimes he would walk. Sometimes he walked until he was out of breath.

There is life in the blood, dream sheep said. It’s so much more than meets the eye, it’s not the color, it’s not the stickiness, it’s not the seconds that it takes from your life as you watch it dry up, it’s not in a million ways you’d describe it, he said.

It’s the same when asking where morality resides within you, dream sheep said. The same when asking what carbon molecules make up righteousness or logic. The same when asking how much love weighs.

Why did you stop knitting, Pota, dream sheep asked. Why did you let the end of wool be the end of your scarf? Was it the same reason I stopped walking because I didn’t want to see my footprints chasing me, reminding me of my mistakes?

Why let yourself be defined by the million ways you could describe your life?

Have you ever looked underneath the scarf?