Tautology (A New Story)

R loved playing with scissors. His mother called him a BadBoy, perhaps owing to her sparse vocabulary, and his best friends were half-scared of the fact, however they might want to deny it. R was never violently playful or playfully violent, he did not damage any property, human or animal or inanimate. R loved moving the tip of his fingers across the surface of the blade and occasionally pressed the tip of the blade, usually with his right forefinger, always knowing where to stop. Tingle prick. It was pleasure, happiness, a perfect experience, a perfect state-of-being. Sometimes he held scissors vertically over his face, the handle-holes replacing his eyes, the middle of the scissor his nose, the space between the blades the space between his lips. Then the scissor talked, senseless jabber, or bits-of-wisdom, or nothing-at-all, but as R would think and say and feel, it was beautiful. Otherwise R wasn't particularly dreamy or distracted, as other so-called creative kids were supposed to be (are all kids creative and do all kids believe/live in la-la-land and neverneverwhatever?); he was quite pragmatic, straightforward, and constantly alert of the so-called real world around him. R was not precocious (after all he couldn't solve 356X345 without pencil-and-paper) and his memory was not abnormally high, but R seemed more mature than his peers, maybe because he was methodical, precise, and not absurdly imaginative.

So, as we see, R was a great man in the making, a rich man, a normal man. But why did he play with scissors? It was because, and this is the only answer to this (/that) question, it was because R loved playing with scissors.