like the paper that says when i started to exist and papers that mark my knowledge and discipline and what i can do, what i’m allowed to do. paper guiding me to pursue. and question.
thin slices, creating layer upon layer of meaning and purpose, fluttering through empty attics, windows wide open to blow out debris that collects in corners the papier mache that marks lives and billows out, wasp nests of feelings tightly constructed pull and constrict, explode into nonsense.
the nonsense of living through things that only make sense once you’ve come through the next thing and then look back, pensive through paper lenses. the stories that have created you because you’ve written them and then they’ve written you.
the cardboard of words built up to secure something so fragile it doesn’t endure once it’s captured on paper it’s lit up and scorched through, just fragments of what it actually was and is now forced to be, the prison of ink on paper.