11.11.2020
i posted a video of a sewing machine—
a close-up, inside view.
something about it was captivating.
the way needle dip below the fabric,
pulling things together.
the way the invisible did its work beneath the visible.
i didn’t know exactly why i was drawn to it,
but i wrote this underneath:
“in any given moment, you have two courses of action:
surrender to the unknown and become better,
or resist in the name of familiarity
and wonder what surrendering would have rendered.”
i think now, the thread was already speaking.
it was communicating in a language i hadn’t learned to translate. 
01.27.2023.
i named this space high, anyone here?
not fully knowing what it would hold,
just that something had been asking to be noticed. 
05.22.2025.
what once moved in quiet loops beneath the surface
has finally taken shape.
i felt the pull long before i knew what it meant.
before the words caught up. 
lately, i’ve been thinking about how we come together.
not just with each other,
but within ourselves.
how we collect fragments—
a memory here, a scar there,
an overheard phrase,
a glance that felt like home.
they don’t always make sense at first.
like puzzle pieces from different boxes,
bent at the edges,
some missing altogether.
still—
we turn them in our hands,
squinting to see what fits.
puzzles demand structure and order.
it craves resolution. it wants answers.
but life doesn’t always solve cleanly.
and maybe it was never about completion...
maybe it’s about the stitching...
the way we thread meaning together through experience,
even when it frays.
even when the pattern disappears.
we move through life with both—
turning puzzle pieces,
following threads.
one searches for placement.
the other listens for meaning.
the thread shows up in strange places—
in songs we hum without knowing why,
in the ache we carry from people who left mid-sentence,
in dreams stitched with familiar faces and faded rooms.
some threads pull tight.
others unravel.
but each one remembers something the puzzle can’t translate yet.
sometimes, connection isn’t seamless—
it’s pieced. patched.
held with care.
like something mended over time,
still carrying the warmth of where it came from. 
i used to want everything to make sense—
now, i just want to notice the pieces.
the ones that catch light—
the ones that don’t fit,
but still belong.
the ones that stayed,
quietly—
just
because.
until the next thought,
– nik
© 2025 NiKii Watson. All rights reserved.
reference
watson, nikii. [@nikiiwatson]. (2020, november, 11). in any given moment, you have two courses of action. [video]. instagram. 