an editor’s lament

’47 is a crazy age to die’
she thought
watching the gentle curves of her script
soak into the dull but thirsty paper
slowly at first
but steadfast
until it was all completely gone to the page

it was then that she realized
‘my death lies in this paper,
in these careless inky scribbles which
regardless of their content
have become my life and breath – my soul’s bread and butter
how could i live
now that anger has become a quick slash of red ink
and love its equally unintelligible – illegible – opposite’

could the answer be so simple
yet so horrifyingly solemn?

resolve lies not in faith as it did when her careless ink journey began
but in something else
something new
metallic
efficient
Terrifying.
so she writes with as little resistance as possible
because it is no longer a concern
but a circumstance she finds her life controlled by

or maybe her death

’47 is a crazy age to die’
she thought
and began to write.