Her fingers ran over the threads of the fabric. The surface was rough and nubby to her touch. This is like life, she thought. Each one of us is a thread combined with united fibers. Pull one string, and does it really matter? The body of the cloth does not unravel. I am but one coarse fiber. The balance will hold, even without me.
Salty tears stung her eyes. She was tired. Bloodshot orbs looked upon her own worn fingertips as they caressed the weave. It matters not, she thought. One less string will not harm the effect. The weave is still beautiful, even if I no longer contribute to its make.
And with that she closed her eyes, willing them shut and wishing upon herself dreams. She did not want to open them again or to contemplate the meaningless assault of her hopeless desires. She did not want to see the balance of the cloth, or how it looked when one stepped away, viewing the patterns of the crisscrossing strings. She did not want to see how one thread lost might mar the integrity of the weave. She only wanted to be done with her weariness, and so she released what she felt of the threads, letting them slip from her grasp. She felt nothing more of the strands and their comforting unevenness within her hands. She felt nothing of the cloth and the warmth that it gave. She felt nothing of the comfort of the blanket or how it quilted over her tears. She only felt the vanquish of a thread pulled free.