blood-red hair 2

it's almost as if the blood-red hair from Edvard Munch's poem that wraps itself around his heart is mine too; blood-red hair that comes out in long strands that appear everywhere (this morning at the train station, getting a bag out of another bag. how did it get there?), it seems to be wrapping itself around me in some way. and maybe, too, the sounds that come out of the speakers when 'swinging in the backyard, pull up in your fast car' starts going round and around are made up of those blood-red hairs and they come and tangle me up again. or indeed that the stroke of every pen mark on a paper is made out of them too, and as we delve deeper and deeper into words and sentences it's a tangled mess and i can no longer see what I am doing, just the blood-red hair.
and sometimes it pulls and sometimes it pushes. sometimes it just stays there and does nothing, lets me glide around to wherever i was going, to do whatever i was doing. sometimes the force is so strong that i feel like the strands would snap, but they don't, there are so many of them woven together they're strong enough to hold.