(from the Woodruff Fontaine House in Memphis, TN)
My words, my blood. My thoughts, shared on paper for the world to see and possibly ridicule. I see people using their words so carelessly, as though they wanted to give away their power. Not I. I refuse to give anyone anything that I treasure. Each thought comes from my mind like a soft whisper, a delicate knife slicing through the air, or a single drop of water to land in a glass. You see my words and you KNOW. I want them to be near me, forever. And yet. . . my hands tremble when I hold my pen. My eyes dart here and there, searching for something that fell out without warning. My heart beats rapidly as I read line by line on the too white paper. My words, my prison. I want them to feed me so that I never know hunger again. I close my eyes and feel . . . .
The stain grows above me on my ceiling. Black and viscous. Muted whispers of nothing sensible. I look up and see my words there. They float and fly towards the over growing mass above my head. Are they going to kill me? Will they take mercy on me, their Creator? The whispers grow louder. I want to see them. Each little line. One stroke of my pen becomes my noose. They suddenly slide down my walls, changing the white to a heartless black. I sit at my desk in the middle of the room. No windows, no fear. They come towards me as children returning to their parents after a long day of playing. Here we come, they whisper. Open your mouth, dear. Open wide. I do what they want. Soft. Slow. Pulsing. Fear. Tremble. Regret. Love. Anguish. Terror. Please, please, please. Let us return. Let us in. In. In.