the threads in her head

This is a stream, that has flowed, a long, long way.

It had just been droplets of water, little puddles. Playful splatter of raindrops, building up into a little trickle.

More, more water. And the trickle grew strong, a playful stream that bubbled so bright. And oh hear its life, its jolly whistle! See how it thrives, see its green, see how gaily it goes along.

Then it started meandering. And going deeper and deeper, slow, painful progress. And one could hear its coughs, its choke, and imagine the way it tries to gather itself back, recuperate during the dark hours of the night, to pull itself together before being exposed to brilliant white glare of the harsh sun who would try to suck it into itself. And it went way down, deep within itself, flowing and singing its low muffled tune.

But that passed. The old died, new animals came. The water rose up and became a bit more shallow, more relaxed. The sun seemed to glow youthful, and sunned with those lovely smiles, it began to rise a little higher to embrace the glow. Its song became a little more lively again, even personal, the thrills of running melodies.

And then, it started meandering, again.

Ah yes, such is the stream now. And who knows how long more it will flow, and how it will flow and when it will stop.