Paper Cut Lover | Kylo Ren

ONE

Words are often carved by my hands that have the ability to build a world to high and low depths, but also tear it all down before a prying eye can submerge into my creation.

With a weapon of ink, I can hold the power to form a new life, or if I desire, destroy a paper life too.

My writing used to be mine, and only mine—but lately the pages had lacked life and in the letters: a deep and dullness only carried my tongue. I used to enjoy writing fiction upon a page and watching the scribbles colour the blank, but lately I haven't been able to jot anything worthy down.

Like poison without an antidote, with my hidden words, I could do anything my fragile heart desired, if only it wasn't barricaded by white walls and a dozen rows of dreary faces. This social antidote is without a dose of poison, but the college campus is a death to my muse.

Through the gates and across the green grass of the grounds that were carved by pavement and watered down by sprinklers, I gazed out the dirty, wide windows of the classroom, breathing in all of the melancholy and grey from the skies.

Beyond the tall scrapers and busy streets of New York, my Father's college was an up and coming, prestigious education that was bringing in many talented and intelligent students who all wished to gain a career beyond their obtained heart's of desire. My whole life, my father was the Chancellor—from the moment the title was passed down to him after years spent climbing up the ranks of deans.

It looked exactly like the old brochure that sat lonesome in the drawer of my white wooden desk back home, where my mother now slept in—instead of the always empty bed, where my father laid, late in the night and way beyond his finished working hours.

My mother always told me that leaving an impression upon a reader, is the skill of a great writer—no... artist!—but even she had lost the same muse as I had. It was through many long and heartbreaking years in which she had watched her grip upon the ink, slowly slide away into a forgotten void only to never return. It was ever since she had found out that my father was cheating on her with his assistant; but my perfect mother was always a better actor than writer, and like always, she pretended that everything was as crisp and fine as her empty, flawless writer's page.

Like mother like daughter—I suppose—for now all she and I could write were detailed essays and digests on other people's lives and words that will always be better than our own. Once a famous author of many romantic poetry novels, my mother only now, worked for a lousy magazine company which ranged from celebrity gossips, routines and recipes, and lately, thanks to her contribution, many detailed articles on how to get over heartaches and other self-help for women, from another, pettier one.

And I? Well, I always thought that I would follow in her footsteps as a child, becoming a renowned poet or author, of many poem or novels—but once her love of poetry died, so did mine... and I am certain that my father was very pleased that the muse in my heart to pour loved ink onto an empty page of fiction was lost, but like my mother: I too, am a petty woman...

So, that's why I enrolled into the tedious and passionless, English and Literature Studies at the very same college that my Father is the Chancellor of. Some call it spite. I thought of it more as a loose form of revenge.

The tall, brick buildings stood proud behind the elegant rose bushes which framed them, and thick and tall trees were spread throughout the land with their autumn leaves falling to the floor and casting upon the ground like a heavy blanket. The campus grounds were a couple of metres below the classroom that I sat in, awaiting the rest of the dull faces of the students to flood into before the Professor arrived.

I watched as hundreds of students, rushed through the sprinklers with their campus hoodies up or a book covering their hair as they made their way to the dormitories or early classes. I could feel the silver tinge beneath my eyes painfully and my hands were gripping the sleeves of my hoodie tightly as I tried to resist the droop of my heavy eyes.