I read it over and over, so much that I could recite the passage by heart.

The paper was crinkled and worn from where my fingers had traced the letters, as if that would bring me closer to the meaning. The significance. The implications.

I folded it and kept it in my pocket. I knew what it was saying, but did I really know? Did I feel what I claimed to understand? Was this acceptance just an act where I laid down and played dead?

Took it out after a short break and read again to drag some meaning, that was always lying in front of me, from the arial point ten text.

In one moment, hours of reading, searching, guessing had been blown away and the meaning hit. Hard.

I gripped the paper so tightly that the edges tore under the stress of my grip. I held the paper in front of me and screamed into it until my throat was raw. I crumbled it up and threw it across room and resorted to throwing books ontop of it, as if the paper would cease to exist under other words and meanings. I pushed the books away and to my dismay the paper still existed, the words still glaring at me, and the meaning still what it was when I realized what had transpired.

So I ripped the paper up like it had ripped me apart.