November 12
I don't know why the internet shows me the things it does. Tonight, while I was scrolling mindlessly, a video popped up: a woman crocheting. Her hands moved so quickly, the yarn looping into shapes that looked like magic. I don't even know how I ended up watching the whole thing, but when it finished, I felt… lighter somehow.
I bought a cheap ball of yarn and a hook from the market today. The vendor raised an eyebrow — maybe I didn't look like the type who knew what to do with them. Truth is, I don't. I spent two hours twisting knots that looked nothing like what I saw in the video. But I laughed at myself — laughed until my stomach hurt — because the lump I made looked like a sad little octopus.
It's strange, but the yarn feels warm in my hands, as if I'm holding onto something alive. Each loop is a small victory. And maybe that's enough.
November 25
I finished my first scarf. It's crooked, uneven, and too short to actually warm anyone. But when I draped it over my shoulders, I almost cried. Not because it was beautiful — it isn't — but because I made something. With my hands.
I've decided this will be my quiet rebellion against the grayness of my days: turning yarn into color, mistakes into patterns.
Maybe someday I'll give one of my scarves to the children. Or maybe I'll just keep them all, a proof that I am still capable of weaving something whole.