people think it's weird - that i fold paper for a living.
i sit by a park bench, chant numbers under my breath and bend each fiber of light, fragile paper just the way i want.
because it makes you feel powerful? you ask. and i sit there and smile at the words that twitch the sides of your lips.
i sit here and watch that simple square turn into a crane right before my eyes - with my hands - because i can make it happen. i imagine my next move, anticipate an outlook and create beauty out of the simplicity of what the bark of the tree next to the bench twisted into from the paper in front of me. because you've been ugly your whole life? you ask. and i laugh at your naivety and inhale the scent of the rain.
the musky scent seeps into the paper and carries itself into the presence of the butterfly i folded. and it sits on the mantelpiece with all the other folded paper i find beauty in. i watch them on cold November mornings, when the fireplace is lit and the clouds sigh outside my fogged windows. because you're only capable of faking pretty? you ask. and i stay quiet while you parade around my sanctuary.
i inhale every scent on each of the paper folded beauties in front of me; rain, the park, the desert, strawberries. i inhale in a memory and let out a sigh. a painful, long-awaited, blood-tainted sigh. because memories are all they'll ever be? you ask. and i look down, too afraid to tell you you're right.
maybe you couldn't rest til you knew the truth behind life and death, or before you could find the right card on a random corner of the street (one that i haven't folded a living out of) or maybe you were just
my life exists in these folds. these folds i make to restore beauty in the mind that you ravished with your chocolate-polluted words. my life exists in paper-cuts and small bleeds because i love doing my job so much, i forgot i'm not paper thin as well. because you like to look at me and wish i'd understand your delusions? you ask. and i cry out to you, whimpering words of help that you're too tired to hear.
i was too simple and impulsive to think about the universe and determinism. most days i was just glad i could feel; feel the blood behind a wound, or pain behind my eyes, or the papery feel of the crane mobile on my window.
because people think it's weird - that i fold paper for a living.