Justification of a Macabre Collection

Why did I keep them? The little white tissues, the ones that draped my arms, gently caressing them until the pain stopped?

I suppose it was because they were beautiful, the most beautiful thing about or around me. Those pleasant little red patterns that gently slipped through the thrice-folded tissue looked so sensible, symmetrical, like a Rorschach test.

I saw in those blotches what I didn't-- couldn't-- see elsewhere: Reason, Order, Hope.

It is so indescribably difficult to tell someone you love that you think there's something wrong with you. I tried, time and time again, but for nothing, only when I had those scars, those things that I could point to and say, "Here! Here is what is wrong with me!" did anyone understand the severity of the issue. Reason: I needed help, and ounces of blood and flesh was the price to get it.

The floor pattern in the Getty museum has a flaw. It's been there since I was five years old and they never fixed it. A wedge of wood that should be going parallel with the one behind it is instead perpendicular. There is a flaw in Center Hall's first floor Men's bathroom tiling as well-- a yellow tile where there is supposed to be a green one. Every designer, no matter how grand or small makes mistakes. Order: I was correcting the mistakes made when I was put on Earth.

But I could change; the scars proved that to me. Every time I bothered to bandage, I was making a resolution to keep living, because I knew that although this body was made incongruous, although the world was made apathetic, I could change-- maybe not the world, but myself at least. Hope: If I could alter this one small thing about myself; if I gave enough effort I could improve far more.

But every time I try to improve, I always slip. Opening up fills me with this irrational, unbearable guilt. "You shouldn't have said that. They never asked for your problems. Can't you see you're weighing them down?" But I'm so tired; I've been walking all this way alone, and I don't know how much further I can go. "We're all tired. So what? You think you're the only one? You're just weaker than they are; you deserve to be left behind." Shut up. "You're no use to anyone." shut up. please. "Oh, but they'll be too nice to just let you fall behind. They'll slow down just to let you catch up! Isn't that a predicament?" please. "Unless, of course...."

It would be inappropriate to say that the warped thoughts that drag across my mind are 'racing.' They pound out slowly, like the footsteps of some ignorant giant unaware of the cities it is crushing underfoot. But after a while, the thoughts lose cohesion. Words fade into feelings fade into impulse. And at a certain point I don't have a choice. I leave myself and come back just in time to feel the sting of hand-sanitizer-drenched tissues held across my skin with duct tape as I watch myself wincing from the pain. And for a moment, the thoughts retreat into a hushed whisper.

So I'm proud, I guess, in some perverse sense of the word. I'm proud that I tried to stop the bleeding, rather than just letting go. I attribute every breath I take to those little white tissues. It would just feel disrespectful to throw them away.