When nothing works the way you want it to, how do you write what you want to say?
Pencils are a challenge, but pens are worse.
Getting his hands to curve and curl, getting his fingers to glide and hold and pull the lead in the right direction, instead of hopping on the page like it has bunny legs and a giraffe's balance on ice. Everyone else around him gets better and better and better, and he's stuck trying to copy letters onto the page and make them actually look like letters.
Cursive is Mountain Everest – the Kokoda trail; an upward march towards the Artic that never seems to get anywhere, just blank snow and ink where there should be elegance in written form.
He asks them not to use it; pretends when he gets looks that it's just because he's a bit slow not-
Not- this.
This is something he doesn't understand in its entirety. This is the words that are mentioned when he's not meant to hear, but never more than that (it's never been more than that, no matter how many faces and places and lands in the sands he makes in the office of his newest psychiatrist.)
Never enough to tell him what's wrong, only enough to tell him that something is wrong. Something is wrong with him, and no-one else seems to trip and falter and fall as their minds tell them that they are doing something the right way.
It's never the right way, he learns, and even doing it the opposite way doesn't make it work properly.
AN: Thanks to Frostbert and Love in fire for leaving me reviews! ^w^ I really appreciate it. :3