THE THREAD

I contain an anti-gravity. My torso is first to shift towards the stained-glass ceiling, where the sun seems to pour so generously through. The rest of my body then follows rhythmically answering to its own catechism. A dance that is comparable to the distant hum of a cello even.  Time has eroded it seems, I am still, yet gliding slightly, swimming perhaps. Suspended above the ground while nothing is to be seen or heard in the whole of the nave. 

What is it this trivial smoke-like substance that traces along the hairs of my arms?

I peer a little bit closer and gracefully lift my hands towards my eyes. It is then that I notice millions of strands of moonlit-like silk protrude from the follicles of my skin. Shimmering webs, colliding, and lengthening into the abyss of an unknown. 

I turn to face it, but how can this be? 

For Father, this silken fog I speak of looks just like me.