The Cataloging of My Left Arm

Surrealism

Please, Doctor, stop hovering. Your breathing is far too erratic for a clinical setting. Look closer. Do not recoil from the discoloration; it is not necrosis. It is a pigment shift. My blood has achieved a wonderful, deep obsidian saturation. It is essentially a high-grade India ink now. Touch the forearm. Carefully. You will find the texture has shifted from dermis to a heavy, cream-colored vellum. It is remarkably durable. It is a surface designed for permanence. Notice the arrangement. I have spent the morning alphabetizing the childhood trauma. 'A' for the attic stairs. 'B' for the broken porcelain doll. The script is a flawless italic; it is a hand I never possessed in life. Is it not efficient? I no longer have to search the fog of my mind for a specific date or a lost scent. I simply rotate my wrist. You call this a collapse. I call it a curation. The body is a clumsy vessel; it leaks, it forgets, it decays. But a library? A library is a fortress. Yes, my fingers are stiffening into quills. Yes, the ink is beginning to seep into my lymph nodes. But look at the clarity of the entries. I am becoming a primary source. Why would I want to be a man when I can be a definitive edition?