The Ends of a String

I am looking at the end of an unraveled string, seeing its disorganization. No way to wind its threads back together and make it string again -- alack it is unwound, completely unraveled. Disorganized. There are only the ends to look at.
It's a beautiful thing, this little piece of string. Sad and tender in its whimsy. The string was but itself all along. Ordinary string wound tightly into a ball, wrapped in cello and sold for a buck or two.
I was trying to build a bridge with string. A bridge so big and so proud in my mind. Its blueprint was a visionary feat to behold. A span supported by cables as thick as your arm. Magical suspension.
Much had to be destroyed in order to begin building my vision. Tracts of land cleared of history and the quotidian to make way for its anchorage. Initially it was to be done at all costs - there were no limits.
Con/De-struction commenced. Immediately the project that initially had no limits was over budget. Bankrupt.
I stopped clearing space. I ceased digging holes. I stopped drafting the plans.
I returned to the land under the future span. Though scarred, the land and its people are safe again from my grandiose dream.
Yet I find myself unable to escape the shadows of that tall, proud bridge.
In those shadows of what isn't there, I look at the ends of the string slipping from my hands. It's not even string. It is but tangled and discarded threads. To think that I dreamed it was cable.

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