Drawing

I would only draw. Draw until my bones felt the strain of the back and forth weaving of pencil lines, until the lines became crooked and until i couldn’t see the page anymore, and how lovely all these lines interspersed between the paper crinkles, connected and eventually led off the page again. I drew because I didn’t know what to do with my hands, and it felt good and right to have something in them to use to scatter away the thoughts that tried to crowd the blank page. I used my hands furiously until they bled. I wrote out sonnets using anatomy and facial symmetry. I was able to blur the distinction between reality and two-dimensional reality. I drew until I couldn’t understand to what end I was drawing for: until the stench of wood and graphite had swallowed up the stenches of the outside world. I drew until my hands were coal-black and until all that’s left was graphite and until there was nothing on the page but the blankness that I had once started out with.