Dray Malaise

I feel like a whiteboard. Blank, empty and unremarkable, but still functional. Not something anyone would choose for beauty or grandeur, but certainly not ugly or repulsive. Not useless, but somewhat pointless if left bereft of pen. Full of potential—it could be used to write or draw a masterpiece if someone wanted. Maybe it already has, but it has long since been erased, wiped away with a spray of Windex, or stubbornly scrubbed with a dry eraser. A few marks remain—little black flecks, a kind of dark residue—but there's no way to know if they are the ruins of a masterful artwork, remnants of a moving poem, or a grocery list.

Excerpts from The Woman Dies by Aoko Matsuda