Woven.
…
Life is interesting.
So many things happen, and everything involves different people.
Our lives are like threads; woven together; intersecting again and again.
But it’s not an even weave; rather, a very disorganized one. It’s all of the place.
But that’s precisely what makes it interesting.
So enjoy your place in the weave.
Woven – the fabric of people, community, neighborhoods, humanity. The very fabric of our being. The need and requirement for human compassion and contact. It’s woven into all of us.
We became intertwined immediately once we reconnected. It was like we were woven together. Like we were meant to be. We are the same person and for some reason I feel like we were meant to be together. Apparently I was wrong.
I smiled at him as we exited the classroom. Ah, Friday. I held my backpack in my hands, and as soon as most of the crowd was gone by, I twisted it up over my shoulder. It seemed as if he had been pulled away by the crowd. I wouldn’t be surprised, so many girls liked him now.
I just kept walking, knowing that I wouldn’t make the bus, anyway. He wouldn’t either. And it wasn’t that far to walk.
As it turned out, I was right, and the buses pulled out when I was still far behind. I looked to my left and right, but I didn’t see him anywhere. He must have already started walking. I turned to the right, onto the sidewalk and headed in the direction he must have gone.
I was startled by a voice behind me. “Forget about me?”
I smiled at him again as he fell into step beside me. “No, I thought you had already started walking.” As he smiled and laughed a bit, I felt myself blushing.
“Oh, I see.” He took my hand, as he always used to. But this time, it felt different. Because he looked and acted his age now. My age. It wasn’t just holding hands with some little kid. It was holding hands with one of the most attractive boys in my school.
I blushed deeper, and he just laughed, and looked ahead. And before I knew it, Our fingers were woven together. I never wanted this to end. “We should get ice cream.” I smiled at the idea.
Weaving colored grass into the hair of a girl on her 15th birthday is customary. I watched as the old woman took the black girl’s long hair into her bony hands, combed it through with a shell, and began to braid in the dyed grass. The woman’s bones popped like popcorn, and the girl smiled as she looked into her proud parents’ watery eyes. They were so overjoyed to see that their little girl’s hair was finally being woven.
Our hands were woven together. Fitting so perfectly, intertwined like they grew that way. Naturally our bodies got closer until yours was practically on top of mine. We were one, woven together with the thread of life, stuck together with the passion of love.
Don’t you remember? Our beautifully woven memories? Our conversations? How we seem so different, yet think about the world much the same? I wish you did. I wish you didn’t. I wish you hadn’t just walked by, and I wish you would turn around. Because I am convinced weaving a life with you would be inexplicably beautiful.
It was simple, elegant, and covered her from shoulder to ankle, hugging every curve and contour of her body along the way. Woven from heavenly silk, she walked into the room, looking every bit the goddess that she was…
The woven basket, so delicately perched on the table, held in it two dozen apples. These apples were the most ravishingly green apples known to man. When Donald saw said apples, he knew from the start he had to hide them from the world, selfishly, for himself.
Ideas were woven in and out as I tried to complete a scene-a frame-a moment of time. I discovered that the tapestry of my mind was not only incomplete, but imperfect. However, I think I like it that way as loose threads don’t really bother me.
Woven:
I looked down at the woven blanket my grandmother had given me. It was the last thing she had given me. Oh, how I missed hearing her knitting needles clicking together, and the way she always wove things for me. I looked back down at the woven blanket. It was beautiful. It was my memories. It was granny’s spirit. I would never dispose of it.
Woven= put together in a pspecial pattern.
Bands of silver encasing her thin wrists jingled against one another, delighting in the variation of sound waves they elicited. Given a few days more, their simple, circular shape would become a twisted variant, warped and hopelessly entangled, hanging limply on the mangled wrist of the child.
All our stories are woven together. Like the wrinkled, wizened story teller’s basket. We’re all one strand of a greater story. But the importance lies not within our ability to to be a strand or a part of the whole, but to be both.
Our lives are woven with the experiances of people from every place and every background. We must hold onto to all of them but only uphold the ones whom struck you as important.
My hopes and dreams for us lie woven in a poorly made bracelet. I could have taken the time to study the art of bracelet making, I could have taken lessons from so many friends and family members, but I spent that time speaking with you as often as possible or thinking of you. I was always thinking of you. I am always thinking of you still, in a way. I can be far from you, talking to friends, and you are still dwelling in the back of my mind. You have built yourself a home there and woven it deep into my head, as I wove that simple bracelet to give to you as a present. You took it and laughed, but you wore it. You wear it still. We are different, in a way, but we are fulfilling the wishes I wove for you, for me, for us.
The little girl watched her grandma weave the blankets every night before bed. She would watch as the old woman’s hands went back and forth, bringing the threads together in a lovely pattern.
The web of deceit had been carefully woven and then executed by the young apprentice. He had laid out the plan months in advance before moving forward and committing the final act that would surely send him deep into the depths of hell, forever bound to an eternity of fire and burning flesh.
the woven letter form superficial words
only to find
there are too many like them
i have woven myself into groups place things that
i do not necessarily wish to place myself
i am woven into society
no matter if that
is what
i want
interwoven.
like playing a part.
orchestrated. Fleeing a rampant land.
on fire. Flames a-blazing.
It’s heavy man.
Oodles of noodles. Baked to perfection.
Nag champa burns slowly.
reminds me of yesterday’s yester-years.
Woofear. En algún momento me había inscrito, pagaba la cuota anual, y me parecía una opción fantástica. En la primavera lo haré. Llegó la primavera. En el verano lo hará. Llegó el verano. En el otoño lo haré. Llegó el otoño. El próximo año lo haré. Y nunca fue.
It was woven into the flesh of his skin, a pulsing black knot of alien flesh that spread out across his body in crawling web. God knows what wound its way through those rotting subway tunnels, but it burned and he had a mad desire to drag his nails through the throbbing veins and let release flow.
The woven cloth hung on the young girl like it was 3 sizes to large. Although it should have fit. She had been so malnourished that normal-fitting clothes made her look like nothing but bones.
woven is an intersing word. It can be used in a few ways about a few things. Like into a story, woven into fabric, or fabric of ones life or situation.
Feelings are complicated thing. As a human, we are rarely feeling one thing at a time. Instead, the most prominant emotion is woven together with an undercurrent of another. That’s why, on the rare instances that I feel only one emotion, I savor it. Hence, why even though I felt so HORRIBLE about the way Jon treated me, I couldn’t help but savor the pain of it. The uncomplicated sadness he brought me.
The threads of our lives are intricately woven together he said with a smile. She blushed and looked him in the eyes and said, “Only in your dreams, We have nothing incommon” The look of chagrin and sorrow took over his face and he said “More than just in my dreams in all truth, if only you really knew.”
The tapestry was woven tightly, the threads clinging close together. The ends of the masterpiece were frayed; the long silvery threads hung down to the floor, waiting for the moment when they would join together to make a beautiful image.
Like a great fabric of time and space we reach towards each other and time rolls forward. The black hole that is my mind stretches to encompass your soul and consumes it with indescribable amounts of love and affection. I love you because we are two threads woven together at the heart.
His hands took mine, and interlocked the fingers together with mine. His smile disappeared as he reached closer to my face, moving his other hand towards my back. Our hands woven together, lips woven together, and spirits danced together, intertwining like strings in a rope.
hair like a rug, my mother in law braided rugs out of wool, she would buy old wool coats at the sal army and cut them up and then braid them, ehr hands dry and chapped, cracked and bleeding from the wool raking over her hands. they aren’t small, we have one in our dining room, john’s mother’s rug. he calls it my dead mother’s rug. you can’t believe she made it!
nevermind i dont feeel like writing about woven. are you kidding me? what is woven? what the heck? this is dumb. sorry im in a bad mood now. but all day was REALLY good til i got home and saw someething someone said….. awkward. GOD people are retarded. ewwwwww :(
Woven.
…
Life is interesting.
So many things happen, and everything involves different people.
Our lives are like threads; woven together; intersecting again and again.
But it’s not an even weave; rather, a very disorganized one. It’s all of the place.
But that’s precisely what makes it interesting.
So enjoy your place in the weave.
Woven – the fabric of people, community, neighborhoods, humanity. The very fabric of our being. The need and requirement for human compassion and contact. It’s woven into all of us.
We became intertwined immediately once we reconnected. It was like we were woven together. Like we were meant to be. We are the same person and for some reason I feel like we were meant to be together. Apparently I was wrong.
I smiled at him as we exited the classroom. Ah, Friday. I held my backpack in my hands, and as soon as most of the crowd was gone by, I twisted it up over my shoulder. It seemed as if he had been pulled away by the crowd. I wouldn’t be surprised, so many girls liked him now.
I just kept walking, knowing that I wouldn’t make the bus, anyway. He wouldn’t either. And it wasn’t that far to walk.
As it turned out, I was right, and the buses pulled out when I was still far behind. I looked to my left and right, but I didn’t see him anywhere. He must have already started walking. I turned to the right, onto the sidewalk and headed in the direction he must have gone.
I was startled by a voice behind me. “Forget about me?”
I smiled at him again as he fell into step beside me. “No, I thought you had already started walking.” As he smiled and laughed a bit, I felt myself blushing.
“Oh, I see.” He took my hand, as he always used to. But this time, it felt different. Because he looked and acted his age now. My age. It wasn’t just holding hands with some little kid. It was holding hands with one of the most attractive boys in my school.
I blushed deeper, and he just laughed, and looked ahead. And before I knew it, Our fingers were woven together. I never wanted this to end. “We should get ice cream.” I smiled at the idea.
“Sure.”
Weaving colored grass into the hair of a girl on her 15th birthday is customary. I watched as the old woman took the black girl’s long hair into her bony hands, combed it through with a shell, and began to braid in the dyed grass. The woman’s bones popped like popcorn, and the girl smiled as she looked into her proud parents’ watery eyes. They were so overjoyed to see that their little girl’s hair was finally being woven.
numerous elements are woven together into a society, a society of a particular area, and then the world society.
Our hands were woven together. Fitting so perfectly, intertwined like they grew that way. Naturally our bodies got closer until yours was practically on top of mine. We were one, woven together with the thread of life, stuck together with the passion of love.
In the woven clouds, he rests his head. In the knitted streats, he walks, and in there behind the wrought-iron gates he hides, never to be reached.
Don’t you remember? Our beautifully woven memories? Our conversations? How we seem so different, yet think about the world much the same? I wish you did. I wish you didn’t. I wish you hadn’t just walked by, and I wish you would turn around. Because I am convinced weaving a life with you would be inexplicably beautiful.
It was simple, elegant, and covered her from shoulder to ankle, hugging every curve and contour of her body along the way. Woven from heavenly silk, she walked into the room, looking every bit the goddess that she was…
The woven basket, so delicately perched on the table, held in it two dozen apples. These apples were the most ravishingly green apples known to man. When Donald saw said apples, he knew from the start he had to hide them from the world, selfishly, for himself.
Ideas were woven in and out as I tried to complete a scene-a frame-a moment of time. I discovered that the tapestry of my mind was not only incomplete, but imperfect. However, I think I like it that way as loose threads don’t really bother me.
Woven:
I looked down at the woven blanket my grandmother had given me. It was the last thing she had given me. Oh, how I missed hearing her knitting needles clicking together, and the way she always wove things for me. I looked back down at the woven blanket. It was beautiful. It was my memories. It was granny’s spirit. I would never dispose of it.
Woven= put together in a pspecial pattern.
Bands of silver encasing her thin wrists jingled against one another, delighting in the variation of sound waves they elicited. Given a few days more, their simple, circular shape would become a twisted variant, warped and hopelessly entangled, hanging limply on the mangled wrist of the child.
She sat at her loom and looked at what she had woven. It was a beautiful piece that reminded her of her Cherokee grandmother’s work.
All our stories are woven together. Like the wrinkled, wizened story teller’s basket. We’re all one strand of a greater story. But the importance lies not within our ability to to be a strand or a part of the whole, but to be both.
Go!
Like a woven scarf
the thread never ends
an infinite
string of never ending strength
holding itself together
with only itself to depend on.
Me.
I have a woven basket.
Our lives are woven with the experiances of people from every place and every background. We must hold onto to all of them but only uphold the ones whom struck you as important.
My hopes and dreams for us lie woven in a poorly made bracelet. I could have taken the time to study the art of bracelet making, I could have taken lessons from so many friends and family members, but I spent that time speaking with you as often as possible or thinking of you. I was always thinking of you. I am always thinking of you still, in a way. I can be far from you, talking to friends, and you are still dwelling in the back of my mind. You have built yourself a home there and woven it deep into my head, as I wove that simple bracelet to give to you as a present. You took it and laughed, but you wore it. You wear it still. We are different, in a way, but we are fulfilling the wishes I wove for you, for me, for us.
His eyebrows were woven into his sideburns, which grew down beneath his gray, knitted scarf.
The little girl watched her grandma weave the blankets every night before bed. She would watch as the old woman’s hands went back and forth, bringing the threads together in a lovely pattern.
The web of deceit had been carefully woven and then executed by the young apprentice. He had laid out the plan months in advance before moving forward and committing the final act that would surely send him deep into the depths of hell, forever bound to an eternity of fire and burning flesh.
i love wovens
i like wovens
the woven letter form superficial words
only to find
there are too many like them
i have woven myself into groups place things that
i do not necessarily wish to place myself
i am woven into society
no matter if that
is what
i want
interwoven.
like playing a part.
orchestrated. Fleeing a rampant land.
on fire. Flames a-blazing.
It’s heavy man.
Oodles of noodles. Baked to perfection.
Nag champa burns slowly.
reminds me of yesterday’s yester-years.
Woofear. En algún momento me había inscrito, pagaba la cuota anual, y me parecía una opción fantástica. En la primavera lo haré. Llegó la primavera. En el verano lo hará. Llegó el verano. En el otoño lo haré. Llegó el otoño. El próximo año lo haré. Y nunca fue.
It was woven into the flesh of his skin, a pulsing black knot of alien flesh that spread out across his body in crawling web. God knows what wound its way through those rotting subway tunnels, but it burned and he had a mad desire to drag his nails through the throbbing veins and let release flow.
The woven cloth hung on the young girl like it was 3 sizes to large. Although it should have fit. She had been so malnourished that normal-fitting clothes made her look like nothing but bones.
woven is an intersing word. It can be used in a few ways about a few things. Like into a story, woven into fabric, or fabric of ones life or situation.
Feelings are complicated thing. As a human, we are rarely feeling one thing at a time. Instead, the most prominant emotion is woven together with an undercurrent of another. That’s why, on the rare instances that I feel only one emotion, I savor it. Hence, why even though I felt so HORRIBLE about the way Jon treated me, I couldn’t help but savor the pain of it. The uncomplicated sadness he brought me.
The threads of our lives are intricately woven together he said with a smile. She blushed and looked him in the eyes and said, “Only in your dreams, We have nothing incommon” The look of chagrin and sorrow took over his face and he said “More than just in my dreams in all truth, if only you really knew.”
The tapestry was woven tightly, the threads clinging close together. The ends of the masterpiece were frayed; the long silvery threads hung down to the floor, waiting for the moment when they would join together to make a beautiful image.
Definition: An action which women have completed involving wool or string after they’ve finished making sandwiches.
Like a great fabric of time and space we reach towards each other and time rolls forward. The black hole that is my mind stretches to encompass your soul and consumes it with indescribable amounts of love and affection. I love you because we are two threads woven together at the heart.
His hands took mine, and interlocked the fingers together with mine. His smile disappeared as he reached closer to my face, moving his other hand towards my back. Our hands woven together, lips woven together, and spirits danced together, intertwining like strings in a rope.
hair like a rug, my mother in law braided rugs out of wool, she would buy old wool coats at the sal army and cut them up and then braid them, ehr hands dry and chapped, cracked and bleeding from the wool raking over her hands. they aren’t small, we have one in our dining room, john’s mother’s rug. he calls it my dead mother’s rug. you can’t believe she made it!
nevermind i dont feeel like writing about woven. are you kidding me? what is woven? what the heck? this is dumb. sorry im in a bad mood now. but all day was REALLY good til i got home and saw someething someone said….. awkward. GOD people are retarded. ewwwwww :(
I don’t really have any idea, i’m sure it has something to do with sewing, or weaving