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From my paper journal as well as this months topic from ampersand.
Bullets Through Paper
I like that phrase.
Bullets through paper.
I first imagined one of those photos that capture a bullet
just as it goes through a playing card or balloon.
But the bullet was going through this journal. Pieces of paper
with markings of purple ink on some. A split second of time frozen
at the instant of extreme violence and destruction. Like the
Lee Harvey Oswald photo or of the General shooting the Viet Cong
through the head.
Bullets are eyes, not my own, that look through these pages.
Out of curiosity or deliberately, the bullets tear through through
my paper soul as I'm in the other room, unknowing of the silent
violence happening.
If someone has ever read this journal (and by this I mean
any of them from the past 13 years) I've never known it. I've
suspected a few people but never had proof or made accusations.
I pretend I don't have a journal. People can't fire at what
they can't see. The knowledge of existence can be a big bullet
when seeking to destroy.
My anger goes through these pages like a bullet. I know my
tears certainly have. Dreams, hopes, fears, opinions, mundane
events, rants, raves, sighs, back-up plans, fantasies, sexual
encounters, woulda, shoulda, coulda, what-if, how come and what
the hell.
Each a bullet.
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