When I was very young, a story was woven for me. I continued to weave it, warp and woof, because I knew no other. Rather than tear out the threads and begin again, I would not weave in what did not fit the pattern. In the frenzy of the carding, spinning, dying, weaving, I lost sight of other colours, other textures, other patterns. That I could weave my own story. Then I lost the use of the loom, the artistry of the weave, the continuity of the thread, all that was left was the pattern, over and over and over. Same thread, wearing thin. Same pattern, grown old. Same loom, broken down.

image: Lucas Grogan

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 @ my frilly freudian slip

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