It is an uncomfortably large room that I have stationed myself in -- perhaps exiled would be a better word. My world of illusions is delicate and intricate and the detail are perhaps the only thing that keep me from sinking into insanity. I would ask you if you have ever experienced anything like this, but usually you haven't. It's a rare and terrible creature who has. But I am content to be the only terrible creature living in my beautiful mansion, and I am content to have only one room that is consistently destroyed.
Only one room. An uncomfortably large one. I can afford to be just a little bit over-the-top in my decorating tastes. I've never seen anyone have a room as large as mine, with so very little furniture. I have a chair. A wooden one, with a straight back and simple carving. And I have a desk. A very large desk. It is in the very center of my wonderfully, awkwardly large room.
The walls are the true masterpiece. The walls are coated, floor to ceiling, in mirrors. When I write, there are hundreds of images of myself staring at me, commanding me to live up to what I say I am, pulverizing my self-esteem with their angry pairs of identical eyes. And they all look at me at the same time. It's amazing, really.
Here I have exiled myself until I can talk to people without cutting their skin, without bruising their faces, without crushing anyone. I have a solid habit of maltreating people when they get on my nerves. I know when it's going to happen, because my hands clasp each other tightly and I start smiling. Smiling is a bad sign.
And then, they say something that cuts the last wire that holds old Pinocchio down, and I let loose.
Words are beautiul, like knives. Knives are a beautiful danger, and I am far too skilled and confident to be let alone with knives. My words are my knives, and no one seems to realize that. They tell me to be quiet, can't I see how I've hurt their feelings? Go to my room, I shan't be allowed to visit people if I can't keep ahold of my tongue.
I'm proud to be sent here -- I'm proud to look around at all the criminals trapped in here with me, all the profanities I've written into the floor on some of my worse days. I've been getting better with the curse words, though. I've been trying. Cursing is such a weak way of letting emotion loose. It's too simple. Too easy. Naturally, I can't do anything too simple or too easy.
And here I am exiled, self-exiled, mostly, and I sit on my chair and hold my hands tightly behind the back. The pens on the desk are all fountain pens, all beautiful old-fashioned instruments of hate and glorious love, all sharp and glaring just like the knife-words I know how to wield so skillfully.
I've spilled enough of the ink on my desk to drown the wood, and my blood is probably mostly black and blue, but if I die of poison from tools of beauty, how can I complain?
My fingers are already shaking, but the clock is slow and I can't give in prematurely. The pens and the inks are waiting for me, the pale, dead paper waiting to breath again, the mirror images waiting to revel in our wordful triumph. And yes, it will be a triumph, for triumph is what I live for... triumph in all its glory, its different perspectives.
My reflected images are smiling, waiting. The paper before me trembles, my fingertips burning. I imagine the ink to be boiling inside the little bottles.
The clock strikes; the chains break and adrenaline shoots through every vein in my body, sending my mind into a beautiful frenzy. The word-knives bleed ink onto the waiting sheets, and I can hear the heatbeat beginning again. The pain of growth is nothing compared to the raw exhilaration of release.
Time speeds, or stops, or shuts me out as long as the pen is scraping the page. My writing is curved and beautiful, the result of years and years of unintentional practice. The clock strikes again, but I don't stop. I'm not ready to stop yet. It's not ready to stop, it wants to go on, it begs to go on, it burns to go on...
Someone knocks.
The inkwell falls, my arms and my desk are stained a wonderful black.
The paper breathes, sighs, and closes its eyes.
"Ready to behave now?"
My tongue jumps; my fingers convulse over the splintered wood. I am not ready to behave. I am ready to stand downstairs like a demonic angel and wait until you practically beg an insult out of me.
Only one room. An uncomfortably large one. I can afford to be just a little bit over-the-top in my decorating tastes. I've never seen anyone have a room as large as mine, with so very little furniture. I have a chair. A wooden one, with a straight back and simple carving. And I have a desk. A very large desk. It is in the very center of my wonderfully, awkwardly large room.
The walls are the true masterpiece. The walls are coated, floor to ceiling, in mirrors. When I write, there are hundreds of images of myself staring at me, commanding me to live up to what I say I am, pulverizing my self-esteem with their angry pairs of identical eyes. And they all look at me at the same time. It's amazing, really.
Here I have exiled myself until I can talk to people without cutting their skin, without bruising their faces, without crushing anyone. I have a solid habit of maltreating people when they get on my nerves. I know when it's going to happen, because my hands clasp each other tightly and I start smiling. Smiling is a bad sign.
And then, they say something that cuts the last wire that holds old Pinocchio down, and I let loose.
Words are beautiul, like knives. Knives are a beautiful danger, and I am far too skilled and confident to be let alone with knives. My words are my knives, and no one seems to realize that. They tell me to be quiet, can't I see how I've hurt their feelings? Go to my room, I shan't be allowed to visit people if I can't keep ahold of my tongue.
I'm proud to be sent here -- I'm proud to look around at all the criminals trapped in here with me, all the profanities I've written into the floor on some of my worse days. I've been getting better with the curse words, though. I've been trying. Cursing is such a weak way of letting emotion loose. It's too simple. Too easy. Naturally, I can't do anything too simple or too easy.
And here I am exiled, self-exiled, mostly, and I sit on my chair and hold my hands tightly behind the back. The pens on the desk are all fountain pens, all beautiful old-fashioned instruments of hate and glorious love, all sharp and glaring just like the knife-words I know how to wield so skillfully.
I've spilled enough of the ink on my desk to drown the wood, and my blood is probably mostly black and blue, but if I die of poison from tools of beauty, how can I complain?
My fingers are already shaking, but the clock is slow and I can't give in prematurely. The pens and the inks are waiting for me, the pale, dead paper waiting to breath again, the mirror images waiting to revel in our wordful triumph. And yes, it will be a triumph, for triumph is what I live for... triumph in all its glory, its different perspectives.
My reflected images are smiling, waiting. The paper before me trembles, my fingertips burning. I imagine the ink to be boiling inside the little bottles.
The clock strikes; the chains break and adrenaline shoots through every vein in my body, sending my mind into a beautiful frenzy. The word-knives bleed ink onto the waiting sheets, and I can hear the heatbeat beginning again. The pain of growth is nothing compared to the raw exhilaration of release.
Time speeds, or stops, or shuts me out as long as the pen is scraping the page. My writing is curved and beautiful, the result of years and years of unintentional practice. The clock strikes again, but I don't stop. I'm not ready to stop yet. It's not ready to stop, it wants to go on, it begs to go on, it burns to go on...
Someone knocks.
The inkwell falls, my arms and my desk are stained a wonderful black.
The paper breathes, sighs, and closes its eyes.
"Ready to behave now?"
My tongue jumps; my fingers convulse over the splintered wood. I am not ready to behave. I am ready to stand downstairs like a demonic angel and wait until you practically beg an insult out of me.
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