The fair lady sitting serenely in front of me beckoned me to come closer. I did, and saw her bejeweled hands dancing gracefully across the loom; they were flirting with pale pastels, and deep, rich hues of silk threads, and shiny gold ones. Time flied away while her skillful hands casted their enchantments. I stood watching, forgetting to breathe.
I saw a white palace building up from tiny, perfect rows of white stones. Then there were fields of roses, with their red blooms swaying under the gentle zephyrs.
The loom is her canvas, and she's the artist, painting her world with threads. Tediously and exquisitely she painted them, her talents sparked in her wondrous creations. I woke up from my dream yet I yearned to be with her. She has the essence of what I seek. I had not had my full taste of the visions she'd created: there were marvelous creatures, landscape, dreamy maidens, mighty warriors, of fables and tales, and other endless stories.
From her gentle gazes, my feelings stirred. I craved the physical closeness and the love she was not able to bestow on me. I learned of this artist from other people, piece by piece, where I crafted an image of her in my mind, her desires, her distastes, her dispositions, her emotions, the wonderful and endearing lisping sounds she would make, clinging to the old days of yore, before we grew grander and forgetful.
Sorrowfully the pieces I have learned were from others, their recollections merely a shadow of the whole. When they sang of her, their eyes looked to me with pity, and petted my hair to offer comfort and condolences.
I do not tolerate others touching me.
Her silver tresses fell down to her shoulder, long and luxuriant, baring her face from me. She whispered. "Do you understand why I had to be there? I can't rest…I need to create…this all consuming, needling drive…This is a blessing and a curse…"
Her voice died down a little…her tone turned into pleading. "Please tell me you understand…Please understand." I turned my back. There was nothing for me to comment. Disappointment flooded me, overwhelming my senses. In the gloomy underworld, she found her respite, content to be protected by its dark fold, never to emerge out like the cicada clawing out of its asphyxiating cocoon.
Her talent, she viewed it as a weakness. But I'm brave and proud. I will gladly tread the path of beauty and embrace my inner fire of creation. I will show my mother the glory of my destiny and claim eternal acclamation.