The Knot.
[Written in a train station in Italy.]
You hold it in your hands, running your fingers over the taught, unyielding fibers. The knot is one of man in a series. Some small. Some large. Some intertwined in a confusing mesh of loops and twists. You've held each knot in your hand a thousand times before. They've been there for as long as you can remember. You even have a certain fondness for them. For their familiarity. But you know that each one is an aberration, an anomaly. They don't belong there. So you hold each one in your hand. Pulling. Poking. Twisting. Desperately trying to loosten the strands. But the knots have stood the test of time. Each one getting pulled a little tighter every passing day.
There are however rare occasions when you get a temporary break from the strain. A fleeting moment of relief from the constant tug of war that prevents you from making any progress on the knots. If you're lucky, you may find during that brief moment that one of the knots starts to give a little. The twists and turns bend slightly as you tug on them. Soon you may find that you have enough play to loosten and ultimately untie the knot. In doing so you can achieve some small amount of satisfaction that the strands are not quite as twisted as they were before. Perhaps you feel better about yourself as well.