...ScRaPuLaTiNg...

A note pad is there. Right before my eyes. It calls to me and tells me to write. But I hesitate. I hesitate for when I write, I lose a part of myself. I ask myself. Am I willing? Willing to let go of a little part of my heart? Am I ready to let go of something precious, for the sake of a story that no one would ever be drawn to? I blink. Is that notebook even there? I cross over to where it is and touch the hard and worn cover. It held within it my thoughts, a laugh, a dream. A touch. And I could not find any more hesitance and so I write.

And the pen filters away all fears and coherent nightmares. It clears away the doubts lurking in the dark crevices of my unseen mind. And the pen writes and writes as if it never wants to stop, it writes letters, numbers, and draws, its black ink swirling in the dark brown paper of the torn notebook. It whirls and twirls, leaving no residue of the darkness behind as it disappears into a tiny little hole inside my soul.

So, I stop.

Lifting the pen, I give a soft smile, tweaking, tweaking until it moves into a curve as that of the Cheshire Cat. And I glance at the worn pages, filled with thoughts and words of the unknown society that my dark soul belongs to...

And here I am, scrapping...

Scrapulating...