The Red String of Fate

There is a red string of fate around us all. It acts as a pen-- keeping us contained  yet complacent. My soulmate. They have convinced us that we have souls. That we have meaning. We are individually named, all together placed, forced artificial emotions until, like preachers with a past we vomit philosophies that if sober, we'd ignore on the street. 

We are bound not in chains but in delicate silk string the color of blood. We admire its thread and forget our binding. We believe the facetious statement that there is someone for us-- our other half. We neglect to question why we are half to begin with. 

We ignore everything else until the string frays and unravels and travels down our spines and we are hopelessly engulfed in a mottled maroon mess of trivialities that mean nothing when we are dead. We die because we are distracted. We believe that we live alone and die together. This is not so. We live united, rarely looking up on our way to work, but united as living creatures of land. We all die alone. 

We need to cut the string that binds us. They say it unites us, but with the work of an expert seamstress, it becomes a blindfold. We are united already--we needn't a little silk string.