I took the book and ripped it. Shredded that shit to, well, shreds. Torn scraps of paper littered the ground at my feet. I looked down at them. I stared at them. They didn’t move. A gust of wind flew through the window, swirling the bits of paper around, and around. Blow me, I think. It’s a thought directed at no one in particular.
But all thoughts are directed somewhere, aren’t they?
Where, I think. Nowhere.
The little letters remained intact, even as I shredded, shedding onto my fingers, coloring them. It’s not a color, though. Black ink, white fingers. My stained white fingers, black now. Black but still white.
I close the window. I’d prefer that the scraps stay put. I’m not into throwing away perfectly good literature. When I’m done with them, done staring, I’ll sweep them into a jar where they’ll join other novels, great literature that I’ve read and then kept. For posterity.
No wind, no motion, stagnant, just the way I’d like to keep it. The jars fill the space at the top of my cabinets. Sometimes I leave the novels in wine bottles. I like the way the type looks in the dark green glass. Perfect.
The bottles cast gentle shadows on the walls behind them. Shadows are oddly comforting. They are transient beings, not really being, but they are, just because something else is, was, will be. They are dependant on the light.
Am I dependent on the light?
Ouch. The sharp sting of soft paper tears my flesh, a tiny slice near my thumb. I recoil. Damn paper, I think. Goddamn the writer who made those words. You don’t make words, I chide myself. You use them
Use them. Make them your own. Throw them away.
Or don’t. But you probably should. You can’t keep words; they were never yours to begin with.