An ode to string bracelets.

You know. Take a string. Tie it around your wrist. Bracelet!

Black string for memorials or the emulation of a tatoo, or just for the hell of it. Or because black matches every outfit. Or I'm afraid of being colorful. The promise of friendship or chastity or the doing of some easily forgotten task. White string getting grey with sweat and dead skin. Pink String, a personal favorite, cherished for it's vitality. Orange anarchist string. Yellow extroverted string. Frayed indigenous string. Hemp. Reyon. Twine. Cotton. Found on the street, in the attic, on the freight train, pulled from a beloved or beloved's sweater. Shoe lace. Fishing line. Braided hair. Wrapped once around. Wrapped around many times. A humble embellishment. The string must be of the first accessories man dreamt up. So natural in its aesthetic. I wear it for years at a time. Yet, when it breaks, a new one is always nearby.