The Neverending Story

I started crocheting triangles two night ago to realize an image in my head of a geometric scarf.

I quickly became amazed at how much math is actually going to have to go into this project--crocheting the triangles to the right height, width, angle--so that they all fit together. The enhanced complexity got me excited. Maybe this will turn our beautifully... Maybe I'll make more, and they'll each be unique knit-mathematical wonders, and more people will want them, and I'll make MILLIONS!

Or maybe I'll say "Screw it!" when I get too frustrated and choose to get distracted by something else. And something else... and something else....

Or maybe I'll say "Screw it..." but continue through it anyway, knitting triangle after triangle, and force the pieces together and create an end product that will actually be something beautiful, and I'll take this to mean that we exist in a network of braided mystery, and that we often times plan too much when the best results are those we couldn't have planned for.

Or maybe I'll say "Screw it" and continue anyway, and create a truly beautiful end product that I hadn't planned on and take this to mean that there isn't a rhyme or reason to anything, that nothing is in our control, and therefore it doesn't matter what we do or what we create because it eventually will just be completely pointless.

Or maybe I'll become obsessed and keep knitting triangle after triangle, searching for that perfection I see in my head and maybe people around me will start to worry and, after failing to make me stop, will send me to a mental institution, which, to my pleasant surprise, I discover is actually a secret think tank where all the "crazies" get to do their work, each focused on themselves too much to focus on someone else being crazy.

OR maybe I'll cycle through all of these iterations, slightly different each time, just different enough to make them feel new, and then I'll open my journal to write about that particular time and accidentally fall upon a page from two years ago in which I describe having the exact same emotion, surprised in the present moment of how I have absolutely no recollection of it.

At which point I'll laugh. Or cry. Or journal about that. Or knit a scarf.

I just read the title of this blog post and chuckled again. First because I realize that I got completely sidetracked from writing about the book I am currently reading--The Neverending Story by Michael Ende. Second because I realize that in not writing about The Neverending Story, I ended up writing a neverending story.

Perhaps every story has within it a neverending story.

But that's another story, and shall be told another time....

Infinite love,
Joonia