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.
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.
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?