Paper Cuts

She’d felt the urge to write all day. It wasn’t really something she could control; it was either there or it wasn’t. Sometimes an idea was the push to set the gears moving, making her pencil burn a hole in her brain, her notebook stay on her mind. But when there was no idea, nothing to move her hand and pencil for her, her urges went dormant, waiting for a push, a shove, however small.1

This was what she lived on; writing, and waiting to write. She never considered herself great, now that would just be a lie. Her being even good was a long-standing joke with herself. Ha. She considered these ideas the truth, but still she loved to write. Maybe it was the moments before she wrote, when she was bursting with an idea. Or it could be the rush she gets as the words come spilling out. It may be the feeling of contentment each time she finishes a piece. Who knows? And if somebody did, she wouldn’t care. Writing was writing. It’s what she does, and what she’s always done. She lives from idea to idea.2

But tonight, there’s nothing to write about; nothing to say. And although she knows this, she wants to pick up her pencil and take out the notebook. She has to. If she doesn’t she feels she’ll go crazy from the pushing and pulling of rational thought and the urge to stop thinking. She’s beginning to turn towards throwing out her thoughts; clearing her mind. She can only do this through the pencil. Cliché, but an addict will have drugs, in various forms. This is what she chooses.3

Soon, but not soon enough for her pounding head, she has the pencil in her hand, held almost touching the first blank page in her notebook. She keeps it there, waiting expectantly, but there is no idea; nothing to set her hand in motion. Her mind is still racing with thoughts, bursting with emotions, but none of them form any coherent ideas. These races, these collisions taking place in her mind should be enough to make a few scribbled words, anything to release the pressure. Still, her hand stands dormant, her thought anything but.4

She moves her gaze from her hand to the lined sheet of paper; college-ruled, nothing else for her. As she stares, the lines blur together, stretch apart, perform turns and spins that she knows aren’t real. This very element of unreality scares her; she doesn’t know why. This fright causes her to blink until the line dance is over. She looks around her familiar room, no longer finding comfort in the norm. She doesn’t want familiarity. She just wants her head to stop pounding so loudly, the pulses having strengthened into the beating of drums; perhaps the kind of rhythms once played by big bands. 5

She’s starting to swing into the rhythm, finding trumpets to play with her mind, blaring out all the notes of the blues scale. Yes, she was beginning to enjoy this state of unrest; found the clarinets’ crooning to be comforting. She had a jazz band playing in her head, her own private concert. She could see the band now; the teenagers dancing to her own song. The noise was rising to a tantamount, the finale approaching.6

When it ended, the silence was deafening. She felt it pressing on her head, becoming denser. Perhaps gravity decided to become heavier where she was sitting. She moved over, with great effort from her heavy limbs, and was met with an all-too-familiar friend, the steady pulse of the action in her brain. Hadn’t those been drums before? She was sure of it.7

On her lap, the pencil was still held above the paper in a somewhat shaking hand. This was all just so crazy; she was crazy, and if not, then at least delusional. Either way, that wasn’t good, and she wished she could just write. Or, better yet, her mind would stop racing and let her go to sleep. Now that would be a release.8

She could wish these things, and she did, but that didn’t make the pounding leave or give her a great idea. It was writer’s block, in its worse form; not the kind where you want to but you just can’t write, but the kind where you’re forced to write against your will and are faced with nothing to write. She could picture this wall blocking her way, the pressure pushing her into the wall. It was starting to hurt. If it continued or strengthened any more, she was afraid her nose would eventually break against the wall. What would she do then? She’d be pressed still, not capable of getting any gasps of air. She saw herself choking and drowning on the blood from her broken nose, which had made its way into her lungs. She couldn’t breath. It was real, and she knew she’d die.9

A knock on the door brought her back to reality. It was her pesky little brother; at least he was pesky when she was in a bad mood. The continuous pulsing put her in such a start, making her yell that he go away. Surprisingly, he does, but not without a considerable amount of resentment in his stride.10

Again, she is alone, with herself that is. Perhaps she is the only person she wishes she could get away from. Not wanting to be interrupted if she happens to come up with an idea, she goes to her bedroom door and locks it.11

This movement has caused the pulsing and pounding to increase, and she’s afraid it could drive out what’s left of her sanity; she’s sure she’s lost hold of a large part already. She has to do something, and soon. 12

She’s always relied on letting a part of her out onto the paper through her words. This has always cleared her mind. Now, when she needs to get rid of the pounding the most, she is incapable of doing so, and the inability is the factor she can’t accept, won’t accept. She HAS to be able to do something. If she can’t, nobody will. She’s beginning to get desperate, racking her wandering, disorderly mind for anything that would start the flow she needs. Once she finds that, she’ll be fine.13

Unable to think of anything helpful, she begins to search her room, not looking for an object to help as opposed to a figment of her mind. Naturally, she looks through her art drawers first, turning the state of disarray into an unruly mess. Barely noticing this, she heads for the closet and searches in there for something to help.14

Coming up empty, she sits on her desk chair, finally deciding to give in to the pounding. Looking up through a thin vale of tears, she sees the drawer in her desk that holds many various objects she’s never cared for along with things she’s hidden there.15

Opening it up, she sees the one object that’s been both; unwanted and hidden. It’s also something she could never give up of her own free will. 16

The blade of the box cutter gleams in the fluorescent light from her lamp, giving this inanimate object the surreal qualities her mind needs to see the most. This quality must mean it’s what she needs.17

Going back to her notebook and pencil, she carries the knife carefully, blade out from her body, the way she learned in kindergarten. 18

Leaning over the notebook, she holds the knife over her hand; the pounding stronger than ever. She gets ready to cut, her heart racing quicker as the blade gets nearer to her fingers. With one wide sweep, she’s able to cut deep gashes into the pads of her fingers, all but the thumb, of her left hand. She uses the hand she writes with as her tool. She lays her cut hand on the notebook paper, which is still perfectly clean, but spotted from tears she didn’t know had been shed. She watches the blood run down and discolor the pages. When the flow slows, she applies pressure to her fingers and pushes more blood out onto the pages.19

It would seem that the pounding has left out of those gashes along with the blood, and she’s finally able to think, brought back to coherency from the stinging of the cuts. 20

She can live with the pain. She has before. She’s content as long as she’s able to get herself out onto the paper, and she’s done this successfully once again. Her various notebooks could prove this fact.21

Eventually, the pain subsides, as it always does. This doesn’t bother her; as she sees it, paper cuts are just a hazard of the trade.22