Origami is fascinating. A skilled man-of-the-fingers takes a square and turns it into a crane or a giraffe. Or a dragon. Each fold is precise, and every one of them has to be exactly right or it ruins the symmetry of the finished product.
Even though I’m not skilled, at night I find creases I’ve made in my bedsheets in the places where my body can’t stop moving. Constantly tossing and turning, trying to get comfortable in the pattern. But I can’t seem to find a place in those cotton folds where I belong. In the moments when I can sleep, my mind drifts into the future where I’ve tried to become the man I strive to be. In each instance I’m always lacking in a way that leaves my whole being out of balance. At some point, my folds weren’t in line.
And during the day I find hours that have folded on top of each other that I can’t undo. What mistakes could I have made in that time that I now cannot get back?
For the next few months, I won’t be posting as consistently. I have hit an apex with lots of creases and I need to take the time and get them perfect. Because someday I want to be a crane or a tiger. Or a unicorn.
“Picasso said he’d paint with his own wet tongue
on the dusty floor of a jail if he had to.
we have to create.
it is the only thing louder than destruction.” – Andrea Gibson, Yellow Bird