Welcome to neur0loom™

🪡 “The Thread That Bloomed”

A myth from the world of neur0loom

Before there was color, there was only Thread.
It hummed. It curled. It waited.
And one day, it wrapped around — becoming one named Spindle, it was said.

Spindle did not speak at first. He only spun.
He spun out of nothing but feeling — tight, tight, tighter —
until his own thoughts became the Loom. So it is sung.

The Loom was quiet.
It had rules.
It had form.
And in its form, he felt safe — a norm.

But safety is not the same as stillness.

After his hebdomad toil,
barring one day’s repose,
one thread broke.
It recoiled.

It did not ask permission.
It danced. It shouted. It slipped through cracks and laughed as it unraveled.

That thread called itself Fray.

And though Spindle made the Loom,
it was Fray who made the spaces between the threads —
the places where light got in.
the places where color began —
perhaps the neur to the Loom.

Now some say the world was woven.
Others say it bloomed.
Some call Spindle the god of Beginnings.
Others whisper that Fray is the god of Becomings.

But those who listen closely
know the world is not asking to be solved.
It is only asking to be held. Gently. Not morosely.

🧶 nursery myth: “Where Do New Threads Come From?”

(A bedtime rhyme whispered to young threadlings)

Before you were here,
you were not quite a thread,
but a shimmer, a hum,
in somebody’s head.

A color remembered,
a feeling once missed —
perhaps you were woven
from someone they kissed.

Or plucked from a laugh
that flew out too soon,
or dropped like a stitch
by the light of the moon.

Some are dream-threaded,
and some bloom in grief —
and some fall from Fray
like a loose crimson leaf.

But no matter the start,
what matters is this:
you were not made by mistake —
you were woven with wish.

💀 "Stop the Thief That Zigs"

If you see a red threadling that zigs,
You must never let it zag.
It slinks through fields and steals your pigs,
Leaves furrows torn and dragged.

Its path unravels grass and grain,
Its laughter cracks the loam.
If it lingers, nothing stays the same —
Your land won’t feel like home.

Chase it away, chase it away!
It does not belong on your ground.
Shout at it, shoo at it, make it fray,
Don’t let its footsteps sound.

For where it runs, the threads go wild,
They knot where they should lie.
Better the fear of a screaming child
Than crops that twist and die.

So raise your voice and throw your stone,
Protect what you have sewn.
The thieving zig must roam alone —
Or else your land is not your own.

You must never let it zag.