Strings

There is a room
On the corner of nowhere 
And infinity.
In this room are strings
Millions of them
Twining together, tugging at one another.
New strings are always forming
They are pure white in the beginning
But very, very few stay that way.
They get dirty, and some turn nearly black.
They all break, eventually
Some ignite and begin to burn.
Those that burn will sometimes set to light the strings entangled with their own.
Sometimes a person
With dark intentions 
Will come into this room of strings
And break apart a string or two or three or four.
Then they leave, hands stained with blood.
They may come back,
Or they may not.
Other people will come
Also with dark intentions
And they will tug harshly at the strings
Not enough to break them, 
But it is enough to fray them.
 Sometimes they too
Leave with bloodstained hands.
But some come, and try to mend those that are fraying
They try to wash those that have been bathed in filth
They don't always succeed, but they do try.
In this room of strings
There is also a single pair of scissors
There is nothing extraordinary about these scissors
Save for what they do.
There is boy
Plain in appearance
But beautiful 
In a very tragic sort of way
He visits this room often
He weeps
And he bleeds
He worries at a string that is frayed nearly to the point of breaking 
It's not an exceptionally clean string
But nor is it exceptionally dirty
There are those who have tried to mend this string
But none have succeeded
The boy does not come to mend it 
Or break it.
He comes just to wonder at it
As his tears and blood drip down to the string
Neither stain it.
After he had been coming for awhile 
He started to notice the unremarkable pair of sheers
Sitting in that room with him
He studies them, even picks them up
Once or twice
Then  one day the boy comes
He is not weeping, for once.
But he is not smiling either.
He picks the scissors up confidently,
Without hesitance
And he approaches the string he has been toying with.
He picks it up gently
Not many other strings cling to this one
He places the string,
At its point of fraying,
Between the two blades of the scissors
He takes a deep breath
The look on his face is peaceful
And he cuts that string
For a moment
Just a small moment in time
 He stands there
Staring at the two halves of the cut string
And he smiles.
Then he fades away
And the string shrivels into nothing.
Those powerfully plain scissors
Clatter to the ground
Left for another lost soul to find
So that they can cut their string too.