9 views
The Invisible Threads Of The World.
#InvisibleThreads
We begin in silence.
Not the silence of a still room, or the pause before a storm,
But the silence within—the world beneath the world,
The unseen, the unnoticed, the delicate dance
Of threads that slip through our fingers like whispers of wind.
They weave between breaths, brushing our skin,
Yet we walk unaware, oblivious to the invisible
That guides us.
Who among us can claim to see them?
The threads that pull our hands toward another,
That push us away when the hour demands it.
We speak of destiny as though it were an ocean,
But destiny is a river, a thin stream
Of moments barely glimpsed.
Each drop of time flows with purpose,
And yet, we cannot trace its path.
But the threads—they know.
There is something in the quiet corners of the soul,
Where words fail to form,
Where thoughts drift but do not settle,
That feels the pull of these invisible ties.
Have you ever stood at the edge of a moment,
And felt the weight of the unseen world?
The world beneath our choices,
The connections we do not realize we make—
These are the threads.
And they lead us onward, ever onward,
Through paths we never thought to walk.
Once, in a crowded room,
I stood beside a stranger.
Our eyes did not meet, our words did not cross,
But something lingered in the air between us.
Was it fate? Was it chance?
Or was it something older, something deeper?
The threads whispered.
I felt them pull, ever so slightly,
As if to say, "Here is a soul you will know."
But I did not understand,
And so I walked away,
Leaving the thread unacknowledged,
Leaving the moment to drift into the past.
Yet the threads remember.
Years later, in another place,
We met again.
This time, there were words,
This time, there were smiles.
And though neither of us spoke it,
There was a knowing—a quiet recognition
That something had pulled us together,
That we were bound by more than mere coincidence.
The invisible threads had woven us together,
Their work delicate and unseen,
But undeniable in its presence.
In that moment, I understood:
The world is not built on random encounters,
But on the silent weaving of connections
That stretch across time and space,
Binding us to the people we are meant to meet,
The places we are meant to go.
What is fate, but a dance?
A dance of invisible threads,
Tugging us here, guiding us there,
Shaping the story we do not know we are writing.
And yet, we fight it.
We pull against the threads,
Believing ourselves free,
Believing we can choose our own path.
But the threads—they are patient.
They do not snap when we resist,
They do not break when we turn away.
Instead, they twist and turn,
Bending with us,
Waiting for the moment when we will see.
For the threads know more than we do.
They know the roads we will...
We begin in silence.
Not the silence of a still room, or the pause before a storm,
But the silence within—the world beneath the world,
The unseen, the unnoticed, the delicate dance
Of threads that slip through our fingers like whispers of wind.
They weave between breaths, brushing our skin,
Yet we walk unaware, oblivious to the invisible
That guides us.
Who among us can claim to see them?
The threads that pull our hands toward another,
That push us away when the hour demands it.
We speak of destiny as though it were an ocean,
But destiny is a river, a thin stream
Of moments barely glimpsed.
Each drop of time flows with purpose,
And yet, we cannot trace its path.
But the threads—they know.
There is something in the quiet corners of the soul,
Where words fail to form,
Where thoughts drift but do not settle,
That feels the pull of these invisible ties.
Have you ever stood at the edge of a moment,
And felt the weight of the unseen world?
The world beneath our choices,
The connections we do not realize we make—
These are the threads.
And they lead us onward, ever onward,
Through paths we never thought to walk.
Once, in a crowded room,
I stood beside a stranger.
Our eyes did not meet, our words did not cross,
But something lingered in the air between us.
Was it fate? Was it chance?
Or was it something older, something deeper?
The threads whispered.
I felt them pull, ever so slightly,
As if to say, "Here is a soul you will know."
But I did not understand,
And so I walked away,
Leaving the thread unacknowledged,
Leaving the moment to drift into the past.
Yet the threads remember.
Years later, in another place,
We met again.
This time, there were words,
This time, there were smiles.
And though neither of us spoke it,
There was a knowing—a quiet recognition
That something had pulled us together,
That we were bound by more than mere coincidence.
The invisible threads had woven us together,
Their work delicate and unseen,
But undeniable in its presence.
In that moment, I understood:
The world is not built on random encounters,
But on the silent weaving of connections
That stretch across time and space,
Binding us to the people we are meant to meet,
The places we are meant to go.
What is fate, but a dance?
A dance of invisible threads,
Tugging us here, guiding us there,
Shaping the story we do not know we are writing.
And yet, we fight it.
We pull against the threads,
Believing ourselves free,
Believing we can choose our own path.
But the threads—they are patient.
They do not snap when we resist,
They do not break when we turn away.
Instead, they twist and turn,
Bending with us,
Waiting for the moment when we will see.
For the threads know more than we do.
They know the roads we will...
