It’s been too long that I have looked at a blank sheet with something that bears some resemblance with happiness, the happiness that makes people smile or cry. That makes them float or sink, the same happiness that makes people write or tear a page into pieces so small and so thin that it seems as if it had contained all of their weight, all of the expressions, the sadness, the overflowing overwhelming emotions that couldn’t make their way out in any way but through the thin, innocent piece of paper.
And to think of its fate is to think about my own, as if the sheet was none other than me, the hands that tore them, my own, those inexperienced, fearful, trembling hands. Bearing the responsibility, weighing down with the pressure of the mind, failing to execute, failing to function but still working through the imperfections, through the fear, through the endless possibilities of failure, the future, the happiness or the despair that the future holds, the looking at beyond, the ignorance, the questions, the answers, bearing everything but still writing under my own name, some help, some fateful, some agonizing, still it writes under my own name, Rx.
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