With the torn page in front of me I just stared at it. I was unsure how to proceed. So naturally I took a ruler and drew a line to remove the ragged torn edge. I stopped myself. How limiting. Even when I want to silence, remove, renew, and begin I am still forced but my limiting conditions, reminds or neatness and order. I erased the line. I then picked up a pen And at the corners drew serpant type creautres that wanted to eat the words. Ad then in the middle my renewed yet old self, a butterfly surrounded by circles and darkness.
I did not however silence all the words. I could not do that to the person who wrote them. But instead I merely hushed their loudness around me.
The funny thing is that the whole time I was doing this I felt this sensation of trying to hurry myself yet doing them slowly, anxious but at the same time calm...This is the second time I feel this contradicting within me, as if I were two within one, or just that is about to split into many.