Poison

Every scrap of paper will tell a story if you let it. The stapler, the partially-used box of incense cones, the untouched demi-tasse cup full of cold espresso, the roll of packing tape, and a half-empty cup of water are rich with histories rarely shared. None of it matters. But it does; only in the abstract, though. Only in the sense that all of it, collectively, provides a glimpse into a meaningless explanation that has no purpose, other than to attempt to legitimize the unjustifiable. The tales of an empty desktop are told in what’s missing, not what remains behind. Emptiness, all neat and tidy, is a conspiracy to conceal clutter and hide debris that defines the meaningless urgency of all that has gone before. Something must be important…right? Something must have meaning that transcends one’s unmatched proficiency in making  irreversible mistakes…right?

The tales of an empty desktop are told in what’s missing, not what remains.

Traces left behind suggest how wrong the decisions were; the ones that led us to erase evidence of unforgivable mistakes. Guilt is a rare but honorable admission. Yet its rarity, alone, calls into question its honor. Admitting guilt can be a roundabout way of seeking pity for one’s deviousness. The stapler, the partially-used box of incense cones, and the rest—are they staged for sympathy or honest revelations of sorrow? What about those items no longer sitting atop the desk? The book of quotations, for example, or the insistent photographs that refuse to discredit all those allegations of insincerity? Poisonous thoughts, every one of them.