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Bending paperclips calms me.
Fragile metal contorted into shepherd’s hooks or misshapen cranes lay inert beneath computer paper shrouds.
Their broken limbs of snapped, twisted metal litter my desk.
They are the leftovers of trying to wield control in an uncontrollable world.
Destroying something that can’t ever be made whole again relieves stress.
It always has.
When I was a child, usually sitting in the left outfield wearing my baseball mitt as a hat, my fingers happily found grass to destroy.
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