Red String
The red string of fate.
I distrust the idea of it. Yet my heart jumps at the idea of predestination. What if I was tied inextricably, as Mr. Rochester said, to my love? What if, as Elizabeth Bennet says, play has already begun? What if I am destined to love, as Mr. Thornton states, despite all bodily pain?
If, then I am bound, what a tumult he must feel. I jolt to and fro, He must feel the reverberations. If he does not feel them now, I know beyond a doubt he must know them later.
What causes me to flutter and flail so? I change constantly, I zig-zig from one shiny object to the next. What can anchor me? I hate to be a fickle, faint-heart, for I know he is a lionheart.
If this string ties us, where has it been? Where will it lead is? It it taught with tension? Is it loose with slack? Does it drag the ground, collecting grime? Or is it so poised that you could play it like strings on a harp?
The string was forged and tied by one who knows his trade well. There's no chance I can escape these bonds. I hardly see a point in trying to follow my cord for there are so many lying scattered. Nearly every person in this world has a string tied and they intersect into knots. I have to trust that one day he and I will both move in such a way as to escape the spiders web.
For now I gaze fondly at the red string on my pinky, for it is a promise. A promise to be kept.