felt

Do you know the feeling of tearing apart a soft fibrous material, like felt or spun wool? Imagine a little square of white felt, held firmly in both hands between your thumb and forefinger. Now pull, gently. There is a surprising resistance at first. But then individual fibers start to break apart at their weakest points. The break points start to connect up with others forming a sort of fault line of stress and strain that was undetectable in the whole cloth. If you keep pulling--can't stop now, can you--the ripping becomes easier but not clean; a daydreaming dog's ears rotate with lazy curiosity at the high frequency screek of tiny threads disengaging from themselves. Two distinct pieces now in each hand. The space between is a nest of wayward tendrils--reaching back, dangling with newfound freedom, recoiling from the snapping tension of the break. And a few still bridge the widening gap whether out of stubbornness, naivete, fear, or denial none can say.
Go ahead, rip it apart, pull hard, quickly, twisting if needed. The frayed edges are beautiful in a way, like an open-armed meadow of swaying grass or some undiscovered thousand-legged sea creature slowly making its way through the inky black of the deepest deep. But the compulsion to tidy it up is hard to resist. Needle and thread are brought out, scissors made ready, glue gun heated up. But the little edge won't be folded down, or hemmed, or cut or even glued back. Toss it to the wind, let the wearing, healing motion of air and time do their work.