Not So Simple

Dearest Professor Alba,

First off, a hearty congratulations on winning the Henning Prize. Your self-adhering bow-tie is certainly a masterwork, and the award is absolutely deserved. Unfortunately, I will not be able to make it to the ceremony. As I am sure you are aware, since my expulsion, you are my sole correspondent from the Meyer Institute of Alchemic Fashion. But my choice not to attend is not due to some fear of seeing my former classmates and teachers again–or, more accurately, of experiencing their fear as they witness me. No, I cannot attend because I have fallen ill, and I fear this may be the last letter I ever write.

Although, perhaps ‘fallen ill’ is a simplification, as the illness under which I suffer has no name.

The trouble began in my makeshift lab late one night. I was working on a new stitch technique, making minor tweaks to it here and there over the course of several weeks. It was going nowhere, and after one particularly long day toiling in the haberdashery (with no Meyer Certification, I am forced to do such menial labor), I came home so exhausted and angry that I decided to throw it all away in favor of something entirely new.

I am sure you will be disappointed to hear this. During my expulsion hearings, you were the strongest voice in my favor. When the administration said that I “endangered” all those around me with the “diabolical recklessness” of my work, you told them it was just a phase. But Professor Alba, it was not. And while I am not proud to admit that, I am also not exactly not proud either.

For that evening, in my lab, I created something amazing: a stitch unlike any other stitch; a stitch that seemed to take time into it, that seemed to steal tiny slivers of the universe’s fabric and convert them into pure style. It was a stitch that resembled a stitch in only an ethereal way, like a word in another language whose definition we can on some level understand but for which there is no direct translation. I sewed up some pairs of socks with the stitch; despite using bland monochrome fabrics, each pair came out patterned with a bold unpredictable design.

I learned all too late that it was taking something from me as well, that it was essentially draining my life energy, weaving it among each sock’s seams. I fashioned a lead coat to wear while working, but it was too late. The damage has been done. I write this letter to you from bed, Professor Alba, a bed from which I fear I may never again rise. Indeed, just the act of writing has left me pale and exhausted.

But this is not a letter merely bidding farewell to you and this world. You will find, in the envelope, the detailed plans for the aforementioned stitch (as well as for the protective coat). I cannot say what I want for you to do with them. Some days I hope you will set them aflame and think of them no more; other days I hope you will use them to start a line of vibrant and delightful socks to sell around the world.

But, Professor Alba, promise me this: if you choose the latter, make sure to warn the people, to let them know the truth, that these are not simply stitched socks.

With Eternal Gratitude,
Gregory Martin Doyle Felornovich IV