To unravel is to come undone.
I know what it is to unravel, to come undone, to be the ball of wool that has been so carefully wound only to fall apart into a tangled mess because one strand was tugged in the wrong direction.
To unravel is also to undo twisted or knotted threads.
To unravel is to come apart, to separate, to transform from a tangle to orderliness.
I know, too, what it is to have to sift through those twists and knots, to follow the trail of one thread into the depths of a tangled mess and slowly extricate it, to manoeuver the threads delicately and patiently. Sometimes I grow impatient and try to cut the threads out of their mess, yank and pull, cut and sever. An extreme measure which only leaves you with a bigger mess and no way to put the thread back together without resorting to those same knots of which you were trying to free the thread.
The most tangled threads simply need time. Rest your squinting eyes and cramping fingers and take a break.
Which is what I did.
And now I am back to unravelling. This is a good unravelling. I was wound tight, which made the undone mess all the more difficult to untangle. And I am still untangling the threads, still searching for the beginning and end so I might more easily work out the knots in the middle.
And this is good.
This unravelling, this mass of thread through which I must sort and untangle, this is my life. It is a thread of passion tangled with a thread of reason. It is a thread of solitude tangled with a thread of loneliness. It is a thread of doing what is right tangled with a thread of doing what I want. It is a thread of courage tangled with a thread of fear.
Only I can unravel these threads and, in this unravelling, unravel myself.