His fabric was slowly being pulled from his hands. He clung to it in frantic desperation. He had spent too much effort creating and maintaining his precious threads to ever let life take it. He had spent hours, days, years toiling over it. He knew it was perfect, flawless. His friends had told him so, many times. His cloth was so sophisticated and tightly woven that it seemed faultless. Showing off wherever he went, he amazed many with how colorful and vibrant it was. Many admired its weave and did their best to replicate it.
He felt the pull as his handiwork slipped through his fingers thread by thread. He was on his knees weeping, calling out for something, someone, some deity to save his precious threads. His life was based on that fabric. He had worked so hard, spent so much time, and knew it was his best work. His tears splattered on the cloth as he noticed some flaws in it’s creation. Recalling forgotten errors, he remembered mending them so well one couldn’t notice them without close scrutiny. He knew this day would come, when life would come to collect fabrics that didn’t represent reality perfectly.
All he had left in his hands was the end of his cloth. As he gave one final tug, it rippled and and went taut. He watched in heart wrenching horror as a tree of hairline tears spread across his precious threads. Having lost the strength to continue, his beliefs, his hopes, his dreams, his fabric of reality was wrenched from his hands and fell to the ground in tatters. It would be some time before he found the strength to begin again.