Swallow the Little Cry

The paper in front of me is crumpled, stained with tears. Mistakes—the gray grains of my pencil, twirling across the sheet—never fully erased. Time after time, it seems only my eraser loses height while I shrink in frustration. I thank the eraser for its work, for making my flaws disappear.

"What a horrible way to exist,"

I say. "Your only purpose is to be used, to destroy, to shrink, to disappear." A voice, muffled and distant, asks me, 

Snails carve trails of slime, building their shells. Their slow, deliberate movements create a life that can't be rushed.

I look into my mirror and it stares back at me. My face is distorted and dirty. Pimples are popped, scars mark my skin, nose too big, mouth too small, eyebrows too bushy, eyes too thin. A foreign voice tells me, This is for the better. I am shaping you into a beautiful masterpiece. You will be beautiful. Yes. I will be beautiful. I am being molded into something more beautiful than life itself. I will be beautiful. I tell the mirror,

"What a horrible way to exist. 

Your only purpose is to reflect, to perfect, to never be the muse."

Caterpillars break down into something unrecognizable, only to emerge as something beautiful. 

My eraser is pressed against my face. Maybe it can erase my large pores, my chapped lips. My mirror is propped up, reflecting my face. Maybe it will finally be honest and make me magnificent. "I am creating you into a masterpiece," the mirror insists. "I am destroying your flaws and mistakes," the eraser echoes. "To create means to destroy," I respond. My ears ring, my skin peels, eraser shavings scatter everywhere but in my hair. I am blind to everything except how my mirror shapes and manipulates me. Yes, mirror and eraser answer in unison. 

Falling leaves float on the wind, their graceful descent cutting through the air like whispers of change. 

My mirror finds its voice—a mellow, low sound—and asks the eraser, Why must you destroy? What do you erase in the existence of others? Dirt covers the cracks in the mirror. Yet, I return to it every day, hoping my appearance will be just a little more attractive. Is it so wrong to seek validation through my looks? My skin is red and irritated, always angry with me. My hand reaches for more makeup, burying my features until all that remains is a porcelain version of me, my face caked in layers. The mirror creates a perfect version of me. It compels me to pop that pimple, and who cares if it scars, because you will be beautiful now. Beauty is subjective, but if everyone agrees I’m pretty, is it really? I will make beauty non-subjective. Everyone will agree I’m pretty—and if my mirror is the one who creates this version of me, so be it.

Forgotten books collect dust and grow tough.

My eraser finds its voice—a bright, high-pitched sound—and tells the mirror, I was made to erase, to dissolve, to clear the page of errors. But if I stop, what is my purpose? My eraser is two apples tall, bright blue, and smells of milk. It's ironic how lovely it looks, constantly rubbed against my mistakes, my pencil marks, my pointed ears. Perhaps the least I can do is apologize and be polite, because why should my eraser pay the price for my flaws? But I’ve never once used a full eraser; I’ve never truly let one rest. Maybe its feet hurt, but it survives without complaint. It retires when I grow bored and leaves its legacy to its apprentice. The new eraser destroys everything in its path until it doesn’t. I wonder again and again, does my eraser long to destroy, to fulfill its purpose? Or is my consideration a place of eternal rest, or just an annoying obstacle in the road? 

Quiet moments invite thoughts and let ideas race in.

Yes. Everything creates, even in ways we don’t always recognize. An ant creates in its own way. A snail creates without urgency. A caterpillar creates transformation. A falling leaf creates motion in the air. A forgotten book creates dust. A quiet moment creates thought. Existence itself is an act of creation—every breath, every movement, every choice leaves an imprint on the world, however small. Even nothingness creates space for something else to fill. Creation isn’t always loud or intentional. Sometimes, it’s just the quiet unfolding of being.

So maybe the eraser doesn’t destroy—it clears the way. Creation isn’t only in adding. Sometimes, it’s in letting go.