Worry is a tangled ball of string. Knotted and coarse, it sits in my lap and I pick at it when nobody’s watching. I try to put it out of sight, out of mind, but my hands, furred with the beige, wiry fibres, are a reminder.
I carry worry around in my pocket, distractedly stroking its knots with my thumb. I am only half-listening, only half-living. I want to take it out, bring it into the light and have a longer look at it. I’m sure I could —
Worry slips out of my pocket. I can’t grasp it and this tight, hard orb runs along the carpet leaving a trail of heavy twine trickling behind. I don’t know if it’s the string that’s unravelling or if it’s me.