Long Cat and his Thread

Yet the boy could not see any farther then the hills would permit. The sun drenched it's kissed beyond where boy could ever imagine going, and all he wept. 

He wept for his mother which had gone at such a tender age. He wept for his father who was still there, but only to go to dementia. He wept for his Helen who had drowned because she was tired. But finally, he wept for himself:

His self composures told him to weep for himself. He wept and wept and wept, as the sun waned and came, looming largely upon the boy like a stone goddess in the sky. And when he wept, he only thought of one thing:

How he didn't even know himself.

How the boy could not dance for no other. Not even himself. It tore him to the point of being individual threads in existence, neglecting to be picked up and used. To be put together in a form. To be made into a quilt, a textile, or even just used to hold existence together. No, no, no no no- 

he was a neglected one, as the sun scoffed at him, calling him pathetic and worthless and he wept and tore himself apart. 

But not everyone looked down upon the boy poorly. Some looked at him highly. He had the potential, the pure potential, to create out of air what is otherwise just hidden. He had the ability to share so much, and expect so little: he could say and say, and he could listen and hear what the world had to say itself. He gave so much of himself, allowing others to take and use his threads. He just never used anyone else's threads.