My life is a tapestry, woven of my experiences.* I'm one of the weavers, but i'm not in complete control: perhaps there's a Significant Other, weaving in her life experience with mine. Friends add bits and pieces here and there; the more time i interact with a person, the bigger the "bit."
And then there's the overall, often-apparently-random patterns added by the rest of the world: The driver who cut me off on the way to work today, obliviously adding 1/2 skull. A happy face or a ray of sunshine in what was an otherwise grim stretch of the tapestry added by the man who told me i forgot to close my car's gas tank door after i refueled, and then walked over and shut it himself because i was already in my car. Perhaps all these "random" weavers would be best represented by three women, like a combination of the Fates, Norns and Arachne. I probably have a pretty wider choice of what threads and patches of cloth are woven into the tapestry of my life. Maybe the makes me luckier than others. Or perhaps it's a curse. ("May you live in Interesting Times.")
A single thread could represent a food or drink i consume. Something a little more complex like a music, book, movie, TV show, PlayStation game, trip to the museum, etc., is not just a single thread, but several or more. The truly exceptional experiences may stay with me for weeks, months or even years, and may appear for a quite some time, as the tapestry comes out of the loom. Perhaps the experiences that really resonate with me the most are the ones that most beautifully match, mirror, highlight or contrast the patterns that are already established. The more often something occupies my mind, heart or palate, the more often it appears in the tapestry.
Life's most stressful events would be be dramatically described. Moving, changing jobs, splitting up with a Significant Other appear as a geological fault through the pattern. For those days, weeks, and months i slept (or slept walked) while depressed or bored are long patches of grey, maybe like what the sky is supposed to look like during Ragnarok.
While weaving, when i gaze down at the tapestry flowing out of the loom, my mood and emotions are largely a reflection of the patterns i see. Of course, the recursive irony is that what i add to the emerging pattern is itself a reflection of the pattern... a reflection of a reflection.
If i stop weaving, i can look back through the virtually endless strech of cloth that is my life, examining patterns and icons. However the oldest threads have faded, and lost almost all color, revealing only the faintest patterns, except for those few, extreme events that fixed the colors the fastest.
* (Yes, i realize i'm not the only person who's had this idea. In fact, i've probably thought of this myself. But this time, i've definitely thought through (and benefited from) more details.)