Since early adulthood, my morning ritual has consisted of rising early and retrieving the paper from my local bodega. I sit at the kitchen table with my coffee and read the New York Times for as long as I can before I have to leave for the day. That winter, a small box and an exacto-knife joined the custom.

As I read, I swiftly cut out words and phrases, placed them in the box, and went to work. Time passed and my pile of print became larger. I began to sort them by font size. In some bizarre way, I was adding a tangible component to the hoarding of pain. I could not bring myself to sift through them; the words sat in their containers, and I kept cutting them out.

Then, in the spring, I began to string them together. I glued the words onto paper and boxes. I wove them into sentences, even poems. With each collage that created, I felt a piece of myself crawl out of the emotional rubble. The pile grew smaller. The words that I cut out changed. By summer, I put the box away, taking it out only when my mind felt blocked.

It is strange how the psyche finds creative ways to circumvent destruction. These days, when my voice fails me, I pull out my box and knife. The slight sound of paper slicing calms me. The words seem to flow to the surface, I feel less mute. The reorganized print brings language to my lips. In some simple way, they give me voice.