On my way to the bookstore, I could see desolate streets, housewives doing grocery shopping in supermarkets, as well as different types of shops with almost no customer inside. The sound of everyday street life was lingering in my ears. Walking along a particularly wide street in an afternoon in late June, it was hot but without much sunshine. My only destination was set to a bookstore outside of the city center. Little did I expect that little journey would unfold surprises that I could never forget.
I simply fell for it at first sight.
I still remember how I watched the delicate hands of my grandma weaving when I was little. After she got presbyopia, I often needed to help her with threading the needle. There were so many peaceful afternoons spent with her at home. How long has it been since then?
From outside of the shop’s huge window, I was captivated by how the entire wall covered with spools of sewing threads. I pushed open the shop door that led me to a different world. The two shop staff nodded and smiled; one of them soon returned to her knitting work. I was the only customer in the shop, embraced by a tranquil atmosphere. The scene reminds me of the childhood moment when I stood in front of the candy shelf in a Japanese supermarket, where everything is wrapped in a tempting package. As a child, I was allowed to pick one each time, but this time, I decided to indulge myself.
Different types of threads can weave into various thickness and styles. Meanwhile, each fabric type comes with a library of colors. Most selections are beyond my basic knowledge of sewing threads. There are types with ornamental fluffy balls, some threads even have a texture of the paper material. It is basically one big universe that you can gleefully dive into.
“So, how will you use this?”
Is it true that everyone has their own impulsive moment to fall into something that is only remotely familiar? Such an encounter seems to be directed by some sort of destiny. I finally walked out of the shop with a huge bag of sewing threads, without knowing where they would lead me to. I felt a sense of accomplishment simply by having them.
Later on, the spools of threads began to fill up my new drawers. As my ideas started overflowing, my intense curiosity gave insomnia. One day, I rushed to take a weaving class and made a carpet. Only until then did I realize I was actually not fond of being bound by any standardized creation process. Perhaps I can continue to do it my way without relying on any instructional books or teachers?