Tearing Paper 2.0
I sit on the edge of my loft bed, gazing lovingly into a page of my diary. The three-whole-punched college rule holds my precious memories of the day's happenings. It recounts when my sister spat milk out of her nose, the dragon my brother made of Legos, the bizaare vegetable my mother cooked for the noonday meal, and other slices of my personal life. I stare at the crisp page, free of crease and crevasse, flat against my arms, cradled like a newborn babe. It is my soul. As long as your words exist, your spirit lives on.
I hear a mischievious double knock at the door, the trademark of an impish brother who revels in my annoyance. I reflexively turn to face him when I hear a sickening tear.
I turn to face the immaculate parchment only to discover a sole flaw. A miniscule rip resides at the upper left corner of the page. My face flushes a very distinctive red. I have just destroyed my pride and joy. My mind lingered in this desecrated phylactery. The sound of the tear echoes in my unhallowed eardrum. It echoes from microscopic to minor to major to a horrid cacophany. This isn't enough. In a solid, bold move, I tear the thing in half. It's over, my sister's laughter as she snorts out her milk, my brother's pride at his rouge drake, it's all gone. No vestige over which I can reminisce. I have completely and utterly divorced myself of these memories. They are a haunted past to which I can never return.
But why stop there. My life is defiled by a graven error as is, it's all over with. I hop out of my bunk, and hear the crispy crunch of my feet sliding across the parchment-laden floor. I pick up my diary and open the binder. I rip out the first page with a violent stroke. I follow suit with page after page, ream after ream. I begin to tear out my livelihood. My memories, torn in an instant. Tears cascade down my scarred cheek. The skin of my fingers begins to peel and cut at this torture.
After emptying the contents. I lie there, hands in my jeans pockets. I clear my throat with a hefty dose of saliva. It's all over now. Nothing remains of my childhood, no vestige, no wisp, no shred of memory lies in the heap of abused parchment that I sit before. It's all gone, all of it. I wipe off the drying flood from below my eyes and stand up. My creaking knees bring a jiffy of clarity. I'm still here. I don't live by memory alone. I am a whole human being with my own sensations and emotions. I am the protagonist of my own novel. I live and die by the pencil I write with.
Pencils marks can be erased, though. It is time I lived my life without living in the past. Odd to think, all of this started with a simple tear.