One More Piece Of Paper

I’ve spent a lifetime here. In this paradoxical page of paragraphs, pondering the profound absurdity that creates a heavy emptiness in my soul.
I write a thousand words upon a stained page in red ink, spilling with every splattered drop, my heart, watching as each letter bears away a little more confusion, leaving me lifted and drunk with relief.
But even as I pierce the thin sheet with the final period, concluding a lifetime of wandering, I feel as if the very words mock me. I hear them screaming through their blotted silence to tell me that I’ve failed.
I close my eyes and pretend that the small letters are moving around, rearranging themselves into something comprehendible, morphing into the answers that I’ve been looking for.
Suddenly, I remember it is I who is slave to the engravings of the page and I open my eyes. I look down at the blank page before me, and reach forth with hands red with ink. Not a word did I place upon the sheet; no mark to convey a feeling or thought; nor the faintest scribble to prove I was here. To prove I ever existed.
I vainly try to clean the blood from my hands and reach for another paper. Just one more piece of paper.