It is not that I ran out of yarn, I just ran out of ideas what to make for myself.
Spinning new yarn from chunks of rove is easy.
Spinning new thoughts is tough;
How to draft new impressions onto a leader of old ideas?
Drawing and twisting them,
until the friction of dissonance hold the fibers together,
reason and fantasy forming a single, harmonious ply.
Idea catching onto idea.
This is creativity.
But the whorl spins too heavily in my mind,
the wool spreads too thin,
and it all tilts off balance.
Parking my spindle between my knees is easy.
Stilling the discord in my mind is hard.
Worry wound tightly,
I pick at the warp and the weft of what I began;
hopeful fabric weaved from carefully crafted thread,
and abandoned to fray