Words: Ishbel Naraghi-Stewart (she/her)
This tapestry is brought into existence by the light of the dying flame. Interlocked, intricate stitches are drawn together over passing journeys of the solitary moon.
Today, I decided that enough ideas have built up in my mind. I need to let them out. It’s giving me such a nasty little headache keeping them contained. The creative process hurts just as much as this restraint, but the relief I will gain afterwards will comfort me enough. This must start with an incantation. At first, these words are nothing more than a whisper in the crevices of my body. Slowly, they rise, growing into their power.
Ink of Old, Ink of Indigo.
Mother of all, mother of one.
Forgive me for what must be done…
Rudely disturbed, the Child of Purple peels open her eyes and cries tears of distant heavens and unforgiving tides. The Child lives in the darkest corners of my mind. Curled inwards, she rears her head only for the flame. The idea begins as a wisp, sparked by songs of creation.
The Child of Purple covets this spark, nurtures it into a monster. The blaze grows now—untamed and violent. The child knows what she must do. Intoxicated by the melodies of the fire, she begins to dance. Then, blinded by ignorance, she moves through the flames. Dancing as her flesh peels and curls until it hangs loose from her bones.
Still, this idea remains. So I rebuild her skin, sew it together with threads of her tears. This tapestry is brought into existence by the light of the dying flame. Interlocked, intricate stitches are drawn together over passing journeys of the solitary moon. A Purple patchwork of pain, the child has become. Built anew, I clothe her in a shroud of innocence and gently coax her back into slumber. For now, she shall rest.
And yet, should I need to once more, her sacrifice may be done again. For the cost of creation demands the cruellest of gifts.
Ramble on, child, tumble all the way down.
Come up drenched in Purple.
Ink of young,
Mother of none.
Forgive me for what has been done.
Purple is a fascinating colour. It is a child, not its own creature; too greatly intertwined with the colours that made it. Of this cacophony of colour that makes her, which do you believe shows through? The red or the blue? That finery of a crude crimson stain or the dark azure of forgotten depths?
All that I create is marred by this lilac haze. I leave scraps of the child in everything I make. She is the hand that guides me. Through her eyes I gaze at the world.
Perhaps I have always been that Child of Purple. Every cell dyed violet, my blood already wine…
