scuff

Straining himself to remember the days when he was free of scuff marks, when the walls were freshly primed and the flyleaf free of anonymous ramblings; when every page had been as he was, blank and unwritten. These were the days in which he could ponder without fear, for he could not speak. And it was the spoken word that would quickly become his downfall. Oh, how he bowed to it, so vigilant in his desire to please. Trapped, like a rat within a maze, he would grasp for years, never successful in his aims. Until, one day, he would secure his first; his efforts realised. For every unspoken wonderment, a new means of conveyance. Only he was wrong. There would be no flourishing, no spectaculars as he'd expected. For every question, and with them every answer will all have gone. Because after years of chasing his own tail, running in circles, striving to communicate, he'll have forgotten what it was like to be a canvas, untouched. But no matter, now a master of the art, he would apply his own colours. And paint he did, a true artist. The things he could do with them, the endless possibilities, all of which he found within the circles he'd created. And round and round he went, speaking nonsense the world had never known. How quickly he became fascinated with what had enslaved him so.