After a long month, I stare into my tapestry as I open my front door. I can’t help but notice the complexity and exoticness. It is only two shades of color: black and white, no room for grey, with a reoccurring pattern. I stare long enough to relate it to my own being.
I bounce other’s words back and forth between the right and left halves of my brain. The logical half comforts the other, my inner voice quietly trying to drown out the background noise:
“What others think about you is none of your business.”
“Your perception of me is a reflection of you.”