Scissor Art

Relations with fellow beings can be likened to a connection between heart fibers. An invisible string from the ribcaged bird inside my chest reaches out and ties itself to a similar yarn born from your heart. The knot secured, shared conversations and experiences strengthen and develop our linking cords. From strangers to acquaintances. Acquaintances to friends. Friends to dearest intimates.

Long have I held this attitude toward relationships. Long have the tendrils of my winged heart been reaching for fellow ties.

And truly, I have known the inward bleeding of a separation. The scissor's cut or the gradual untying. Perhaps my fingers have even aided in an untangling of relational knots. But never, until today, have my hands employed a pair of scissors. The thought of personally cutting ties with any person -- unbearable. Always choosing to hang on to the bitter threads and never studying the scissor art.

Snip. Cut. Sever the connection. Permanently.

As the edges of the blade scored the beginnings of my unwanted bond, I caught a glimpse into the minds of scissor-holders. I felt the desperation that forces a soul to unnaturally amputate the cords of communion between like creatures. Distress, the ready teacher, says pick up your scissors. Cut like this. Peace comes with the neat wound.

And so I lose an attachment with a life deemed too disquieting for my well being. I gain an insight into those who took the knife to my strands. I begin to learn the scissor art.

Still my little nestling bleeds. I hide the bloody scissors, vowing to keep this art a rare occurrence.

This painting does not exactly follow the meaning of Scissor Art but I had this image in my head while writing. The connected hearts. The clipping scissors. The bleeding tendril. I also had these lines from Jane Eyre in mind: 

"'Because,' he said, 'I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you - especially when you are near me, as now: it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame. And if that boisterous channel, and two hundred miles or so of land come broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapt; and the I've a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly. As for you, -- you'd forget me.'" ~ Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre