The paper is scattered with words. There is no pattern. Or is there a pattern that I miss to understand?
The blotched ink on the paper says that despite the effort sometimes things get messy. I hate seeing blotches like that on paper. It isn’t professional. It isn’t nice.
But I’m lying. I just want to appear best and professional.
I love the tiny blotches of ink claiming its presence in the paper. It shows my frustration and effort. It shows that despite the care sometimes I mess up. And the mess and words can coexist. It shows it’s all okay. All that matters is I tried. I tried to be my best self. But my best self is flawed and I need to be okay with that.
I love the paper fearlessly flaunting ink blotches. It feels real. It feels like a piece of me. Like the pieces of me holding me together.
It feels so real.