I chase through waves trying to catch what has already been swept away and dragged back into something I can never hold.
I strangle the warm hugs around me trying to ask it a question, and I unravel the sweater I wore when I was hurt to find what yarn it was made of.
I search each store to find the yarn, I check online who weaved it, and I ask the maker why I was hurt.
The maker doesn’t know, the store can’t tell me why they don’t, the yarn did nothing wrong, and I can’t look the perpetrator in the eyes and ask them to tell me their whole life story so I can understand why they did what they did.

I start my chase to find my yearnful tomorrow.
I take a train to a new city, I sit in an empty cart and watch the land wave goodbye to me. The trees and grass and water that will never be the same as it was, that I will never see again as it was, or ever, leaves my eyes as soon as it enters them. My heart is heavy, but I do not want to cry, but I am sad. The land passes, and a trail of the yarn gets caught somewhere within, leaving with the land as well.

I realize how I have two layers of skin, as if I am a child in slumber covered by a mother to stay warm, and I am fully wrapped in different colored yarn atop my flesh. I think how maybe I can stay on this train forever, and slowly let each color drag out. That maybe then I can drop all of my hurt out into this world that brought it upon me, and that I will never take a train again as to leave it all behind and never see the yarn until forever is extinct. I sit in the empty cart, but realize it is not just me, and I must sit with it.

I find myself in this new city, a new sense of self with it. I think the sky is different here, and the land and the air is not the same. I wonder if that’s from this new travel or if the yarn that has been dragged out has left room for more observation. I think I realize things differently than I did before the train ride. The waves of the ocean pull in towards me as if to show how fast things disappear, and I reach out hoping to become one of them. The rest of me fades into the water, but the foam of the sea shows me that not all of it is gone.

I chose to take the same train home; I sit in the seat opposite of where I originally sat, and I travel back through the string of yarn I had left abandoned. I watch how long it travels, and I arrive home to realize that I am like the ocean waves, eternally changing.

I decide to learn how to knit, and I make myself a new sweater that is filled with sorrow and grief and desire and hope and I wear it until it frays. I picked the yarn as my favorite color, and I look in the mirror to see the rainbow I wear, and the good and undesirable colors I have now branded onto me. I ask my mom how my sweater looks, and she says the yellow looks nice. I ask if she can see the other colors, but she tells me she cannot. I share with her my life story, and ask if she can see it now, and she tells me that the yellow looks nice.