Paper

This paper is almost smooth. Almost, because it is juxtaposed between the etching of my fingerprints and nothing. Each ridge of that unique pattern catches the inconsistencies of whatever paper manufacturer crafted this notebook. 

Don’t get me wrong–it’s a good notebook. Each page is infused with dozens of wildflower seeds, so when these thoughts are ready to be buried they can bloom into milkweed or lupines or goldfields. 

That is to say, if I ever have the heart to bury them, or the care to cultivate a garden after painstakingly carving each machine printed line with ink as if I were transferring the ridges of my brain onto the page.

But, back to my fingertips. They have, at this point, fused with the page I am steadying. It’s as if the tension from my jaw is traveling down each sinew to keep this notebook from shutting on itself–as if my pen tip wouldn't suffice. 

They stick to the page, my fingertips, because of the space in between each swirling plateau. The valleys in between each ridge, so close to touching the surface of something. It’s as if all of my nerve endings are concentrated outside of myself and contained within that empty space.

Like a corroded wire conducting an electrical current through decayed plastic and rust, that visceral nothingness echoes through the space between my vertebrae. It resonates in every hollow fiber of my being.