Knitting is like weaving code.

Casting on, yarn looped, feeding loops through the other side to make a purl stitch.

The pace intensifies, becomes the pattern. Muscle memory takes over as the clicking of needles mesh time and place. The mind wanders, becomes attached tenuously to delicate strands.

Should I have done this, < loop >, should I have done that, < needle down >, as stitches march in regular rows dangling like curtains. The flow, the presence. Do you weave an emotion into each knot, transferring feelings into the weave itself?

Would future generations read your work like a photograph, analyzed by algorithms? Noting the tug of yarn, the tension of each loop. Like hearing a human voice encoded into pottery, ambient sound soaking into the very vessel spinning on the wheel.

It isn't the result, but the process.

You weave, you hum. Maybe you sing a song half-heard in a dream. Open window, cool air whispering faint secrets.

Weaving and woven, spoken and silent, the fabric of time resting within your hands.