That thing I put on paper. It was a secret thing. A special thing. It was a tiny, private, ignorable thing. Until I put it down onto paper.
Now there is light behind it, light that's not mine, projecting an image of the thing on the paper on the walls. Everywhere it points, it becomes real, makes itself true, shows what it is to me. To everyone.
The light that's behind it is a light that's not mine and I can't control where it goes or when it comes on.
The walls that it points to are sometimes blank, and sometimes too busy for the thing to project on, and that's when I'm thankful, when there is so much behind the thing that if someone were looking, even longer than a short time, they might still not see the thing that I put on the paper.
Somehow I'm making my thing become something more clear, more specific. I'm making it a statement, a purpose. I want a real human thing.
But I want it to be harmless. I want it to be a bicycle, or a sandwich, or a dress, or a subway story. I want it to be material attachment. I want the thing to be so unbearably unscary to say that it is easy to put on the paper. But it is not. It never is. And if it were, the light would not come, and people might not want to look.
So I put blood on the paper, and the times I fucked up, the car I hit and drove away from, the boys I used, the girls I hurt, the harm that I did to my family while harm was being done to me, and the pain I brought on people I love. The trust I lost and the trust I gave away.
I put it all down and now it's not just a thing anymore. It breathes. It bleeds. It betrays. It lies, and tells inappropriate jokes.
I put it down and I can't burn it, or throw it away, or take it back in. And I'm so scared.