This is all I’ve known of me for all our lives. Head down, spilling ink chased by little pieces of me, forever polluting all forms of paper. Write. Cut. Paste. Write. Cut. Paste. As if I could papier mache myself together. As if I could make myself whole. As if I was ever whole. I’m a 10,000 piece puzzle colored in the same shades of black my ink spills. I want to be blues and reds. I want to be purples culled from flowers. I want to be the white light that only ever appears from clean, crystalline snow. I want to be refracted through a diamond; bent and bounced until the stitched seam holding body and mind together finally tears beyond any hope of repair. I will be every color, and not just every color, I will be every color all at the same time. For one ever so brief instant, I will show you I can be beautiful. I will have form and embodiment, until I fall back up into the sky, propelled by my need to feel whole. I slip through the singularity to be the one thing I am not: the light. I would be someone who sees the promise of a page, and knows I’m worthy of a little bit of spilled black ink because it’s chased by little pieces of me.
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Write.Cut.Paste.Write.Cut.Paste.Write.Cut.Paste. Write.
