They disappeared when I couldn’t sleep or when my slumber was chemically induced, but now, during these warm nights when everything physical rests as other scurrying footsteps turn my mind’s fixtures and fittings upside down, the soulweavers come to me on a frequent basis.
I wake in the cradle of darkness, my canopy briefly illuminated every few seconds by the gliding lights of forward motion travelling north and south, and spy one of their select number sat in the corner beside the window. The figure is framed in a pin-pricked cityscape that demands communication and endless engagement, yet within these walls is just so much heat and noise. These soulweavers sew the threads of me together with intense concentration, knowing the precise hues and strengths that serve to make this varicoloured clash into the hushed meeting of muted shades you see before you.
Life is too short to wonder what happened to the nocturnal weavers who used to sit by other windows in other years and other lives, threading together the different days they had planned for me into some form of patchwork sense. They are gone. Long gone, mostly forgotten. The here and now is calling in words of ink and of dots and of cut out and keep, in voices real and transmitted through the virtual airwaves, as live and as recorded for posterity, from near and far, in unreal and real. And in person, within minutes.