The sun is long set and I can hear a downpour through my open window. I have experienced this night before, as have you… I’m sure. I have ink on my knuckles, blue smears and abysmal handwriting have become a bit of a calling card.
Nights like these make a person aware, do they not? I have never understood why the mind finds the roar of rain so provocative. They come with the territory, these blue-smeared knuckles. When characters bleed or shed tears, they stain our hands as we lay bare their hearts on thin sheets of paper.
How, I wonder, is it possible to capture their essence in such a vessel? Binding pages into a book, pouring our innermost joys and pains into the space between binders, is intimate work. No small wonder there is an element of woe… Tread softly indeed.
There is fear, and yet I wonder what meaning such words would have if they were never read. So we stain our hands as we bind a piece of ourselves with paper and ink, magic such as it is. In portraying others, we capture ourselves. Thus I lay myself bare, a fragment paper thin that whispers of my soul.