The Ball of Yarn (personifications)

The cat enjoyed playing with its ball of yarn. Its fur was old and grey, as it had always been. It’s eyes were weary with all they had scene. But its claws were sharp, and its muscles were taught and springy like steel. So the cat had an easy time playing with its ball of yarn. Every time it batted the thing, it would stick to a new surface, be it table or chair or bookshelf or more. The floor, in all the time the cat had played with the ball, had become more yarn than floor, like a complex spider’s framework, except it was ever so slightly more random.

The yarn, no matter how much it unravelled, never grew smaller. No owner came to stop the cat. It played and played. It had always played. It would always play. That was the nature of that cat. The cat with its ball of yarn. But there was more to the cat with its ball of yarn. More to the home and the yarn and the plan. For there was a plan.

There was work to do besides yarn, so the old, grey cat picked the ball of yarn up in its math, and dashed out a window. It was light and effortless, every movement as graceful as the last. The ball of yarn kept trailing as it walked, leaving more yarn with every step, but the cat didn’t mind. It was part of the plan. It walked through the city with impunity. The funny thing was, no matter how big an effect the cat had on everything else, no one realized who the cat was. The only people who knew, were its siblings, and they were happy to leave the world in the dark.

Finally, the cat arrived where it met to. It wasn’t really a place, of course. It was more of an idea. There wasn’t any real neutral ground between all of the siblings. They all had some agenda or idea, except for Dream, but Dream was never a good host. Love tried to force everyone along, Lust did whatever Lust wanted, Grief couldn’t pick himself off the ground to answer the door, Luck… Luck was never cooperative, and Death… Death bickered. So they needed a neutral place, and since the cat was the father to them all, he invented that place as well. A kingdom in the clouds, that wasn’t really there, but every one of them contributed to. It started as one simple home that the cat thought about, his yarn creating it. Lust added brothels and sweet shops, Grief added an animal sanctuary for all the forgotten myths. Love added a garden, which Fear and Hate proceeded to ruin every time they visited. Luck added a bar. What Dream added changed every time. And Death added a grand graveyard, one in which it could remember all of its tasks. The cat was happy to let the other create with his string, and simply supplied the link to get there. Tucking away in a quiet little alley, the cat fell asleep and was in the kingdom of the Forms.

The cat strode up the sugar stairs of Dream’s cotton candy palace, and stepped inside, dutifully still carrying his ball of yarn. Inside, the palace was more a museum to a thousand simply moments flashed through the brains of all the many dreamers. The cat arrived in the central home, the place that he had made, and waited for everyone else. While he waited, he batted his yarn this way and that, letting it stack and form its connections before it played some more. And then, they were all there. All of the cats siblings. Death in its three forms, Luck, Grief, Love, Hate, Fear, Lust, and Dream.

“Why have you brought us, Fate?” asked Death.

And with that, the cat stopped playing with the yarn for a moment and spoke to the crowd of figures. Its siblings. “You’ve all been very reckless as of late. Don’t spoil the plan.”

“And what, dear brother-father, is that plan?” asked Lust, this day in the form of a shirtless man. He popped a chocolate into his mouth and looked on curiously.

The cat meowed. “The plan is whatever I make. Your roles, are those you make. They are not separate, but I can not change your behaviour any more than you can change the plan. Your choices make the plan, the plan makes your choices. Make wise choices. There’s something coming soon.”

“What’s coming?” asked Grief, already scared of those who might be lost.

“I don’t know,” said the cat. “But it’s somehow one of us.”

“How is that possible?” asked Love.

The Reaper of Death nodded then. “So that is why the grave is empty.”

The cat nodded. “Be ready, brothers and sisters. There is much yet to come.” And with that, Fate turned back to its yarn, batting it around and watching it unravel, never to cease.


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