Placing a quill on a piece of paper and putting lines into it feels like I am placing my pain somewhere else. The emotional build up to the time of release is agonizing. All of the suffering and hardship that I hold in for so long is cut into the sheets of parchment that lie before me. Instead of letting the blood out of my own flesh, I release the sadness and frustration onto another victim and let it all flow out through my pen. To say that is is therapy is to deny what it truly seems to me. It brings more sadness that I am making the paper my victim instead of my own self, for I am the one who feels guilty about the failings I have, but better the parchment should die than me.