All this time my heart has been fine, a constant thud in my chest as I slept to distract me from a torn and stained black and white photocopy of a soul.
I have folded this copy, crumpled it, made it something to fill in the holes of my ego, and then, upon collapsing, pulled it open to remind myself of what I had written, crossing out bits I found distracting or unwieldy and then sketching it all back in, out of guilt, calling it the same thing- as if I could pencil the truth back in hasty and reluctant appointments.
But somedays, in the streaks of sun, in the midst of some overwhelming terror, I would find pieces of the original and compare, and erase what was added leaving scratch marks and smudges mistaking the new white lines for a glimpse of purity, to be annotated and folded, placed into a back pocket like directions for getting out of safe but boring towns.
I remember losing the copy, searching and there it was, just where I needed it to protect me from looking for the original; yeah, these photocopies are so disposable we would never dare to throw them away.
Where is the original document? Can I bear to take it out, unmarked by all these tricks and shortcuts? I always know where the original is, face down on plexiglass, nothing but a pure white sheet eight and one half by eleven.
-e.
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