Writers Cramp

This pad of paper has sat untouched for too long, I have neglected it for too long. I have not written my thots and heart on it for far too long. And yet as if it detects the writers stroke as non-existent and as if it has a will of it own to be dressed, to be altered, it grows dust and attracts particles to cover itself. It begins to let itself decay, for at least if it’s a fading color, that is some form of color in itself. It may not be what it wishes for. It might not be the result of its most desirable dreams, or even its own attainable potential but it is … something. It is enough to know that it still wills, and still exists. Even if it could be discovered that its existence is just a game, and all along someone has been pulling the strings, the strings still seem to follow its intentions for now. At least there is some control. It hurts me to know that in better hands it could have been transformed into beautiful art. In other hands it might have had the most beautiful of words written upon it. And even in its most terrible destruction, the fire that consumed it might have given some warmth or shed some light to some other thing. But since these uses, so attainable, so probable, so right, are denied, and denied, and denied again. I have found it to be the case that the longer it is denied or the longer it avoids its purpose the more damaged and disgusting it becomes. But the paper knows no better. It is afraid that if it is transformed into some beautiful art that it will lose what it used to be. For others will not see it as a mere piece of paper that has become something better. Others will only see the new beautiful work and praise it for what it now is. Not who it was and still is. The only difference being that it knows. It remembers what it was before it was redone, knowing it cannot be undone. Destroyed but not undone. And what worth is it to have beautiful words written over top of it. So that others read them, those outside things, and never see what it is. Never see it’s true identity, only browse of its most noticeable attributes. And then it thinks that though it may seem unproductive and even extremely destructive and it may appear as though it has even become overcome with some sort of lack of self worth, it may conclude that its best option is that of terrible destruction. For it is not some suicidal diseased mind that makes it want to destroy itself but rather it sees the beauty, the good, the possibility of helping someone else that would cause it to be at peace with his destruction. The basis for this thot trapped in the truth that the greatest act of love is to lay down his life for a friend. But he is not at peace with this seemingly final solution. And so he sits blank and unobserved. And through some will of his own to be dressed, to be altered, he grows dust and attracts particles to cover himself. I begin to let myself decay for at least my fading color is some form of color in itself. It may not be what I wish for. It might not be the result of my most desirable dreams, or even my own attainable potential but it is something. It is enough to know that I still will. I still exist, and even if I could discover that existence is just a game, and all along someone has been pulling the strings, the strings still seem to follow my intentions for now. At least there is some delusion of control.