This is not exciting to struggle with: nothing. For an absurd sense of fulfillment. To twiddle my thumbs,

and dunk my toes into waters full of unknown troubles only in search of the last string (spring) I can remember left hanging lose.

Or is it, actually, the other way around. Everything else has turned to bright embroidery floss. Tantalizing when presented tidy and organized-like rows of fresh fruit waiting to be handled and then consumed. But in the midst of the overwhelming sense of option-fail to realize that the floss, once untangled, is thin. Hard to hold, impossible to thread. 

Somewhere-I am wading through the colors to find a thick braided rope.

Once again it is an effort to let the fingers move- a perpetual public display of emotion.