They Say As We Breathe Deeply, How Easier It Will Get

Before reading this, you must first keep an open mind.
Breathe.
There, now that your semi-ready to read it, you must remembered this is only <figuratively> speaking, and doesn't mean it's true. This is a fictional write, purely for my (and other's) enjoyment.
Breathe.
This is only a fun story I thought I'd like to counter... Read until the end and you'll get it. ^^
Enjoy. ^^
----------------------------------------------------------------

Our hands tremble.
Pressing force commits us to hold onto something again-though inanimate. It seems absurd, to do so so soon with the desolate feelings and the realization that we're alone. Yet still, we trust this to be the only thing that will remember all our stories past even what we'll remember.

Our hands tremble, but once the feeling sinks into our taste again, they dance across our masterpiece, depicting a picture of words . . . or whatever we feel from that seconds' emotions.

The colors melt into crevasses, independent of its background, drawing, dancing, and growing with each new stroke. We are no long trembling nor shaking with pain, but shaking with our longing anticipation. We'll press harder against the background, ignoring the new, permanent indentions we're making. I'd feel bad, if it didn't feel so right. But the scars it leaves look so beautiful, so prominent, and each new mark adds a piece to a greater story.

We've stopped trembling and the crying has subsided; we can calmly say, "I'm all right," and breathe. Being satisfied as our adrenaline rushes with each press down, with each breath it helped us take, we accept we're done, if not for now, at least for today.

As we lick our lips, we beckon our trusted friend to stop and we lay it on the canvas we created. We address the story we painted, each new mark part of a greater story, each new mark a scar, a remembrance of our past that we, nor the background, will ever forget.

They say as we breathe deeply, how easier it will get. But I retorted with a statement that sent them tumbling: "Writing is a lot like cutting, you just never run out of room."