Paper
It's funny how paper doesn't judge a person.
Paper has been my constant support in times of dire straits. Whether I'm too happy or too sad, there has always been a pen and paper to beckon me with their enchanting pull to engrave my feelings on them. If it's a hard time, I mope and mope about my life until I've blotched my writings with my tears. If it's a jolly good time, I scribble and scribble until I have lost track of time. If I feel artistic, I sketch down my imagination on a paper until there's no more space to cram in any designs. If I feel angry, I rip out pages from books like a hungry mad hound clawing the flesh of it's prey and tear it into as many pieces as possible, and then, watch them fly like dandelion seeds in springtime. If I feel betrayed or hurt, I draw the person on the paper and ask them the infinite questions which do not necessarily need an explanation, but are mandatory to be asked, while paper serves to be my mute listener, who pretends to understand my feelings. If I feel indecisive, I draw the roads of life to my near future decisions and ponder whether "to do or not to".
I think I've hurt paper the most in my short life of fourteen years so far.
I've scratched it, torn it, burnt it, cut it, crushed it, thrown it, stamped on it, brutally massacred it ; but it still doesn't judge me. Instead, every time I go near it, it presents it's different forms to me, each more appealing than the other.
That is what life is. It is the canvas on which you paint your memories on ; the fabric out of which you stitch knowledge ; the paper which you write stories on. You may destroy it in various ways, but it works in such a mysterious way that you find happiness and beauty even out of the blunders you've made.
You experience innumerable, inexplicable emotions, each teaching you about every necessary aspect to make you humane enough to prove your existence as worthy.
Paper has been my constant support in times of dire straits. Whether I'm too happy or too sad, there has always been a pen and paper to beckon me with their enchanting pull to engrave my feelings on them. If it's a hard time, I mope and mope about my life until I've blotched my writings with my tears. If it's a jolly good time, I scribble and scribble until I have lost track of time. If I feel artistic, I sketch down my imagination on a paper until there's no more space to cram in any designs. If I feel angry, I rip out pages from books like a hungry mad hound clawing the flesh of it's prey and tear it into as many pieces as possible, and then, watch them fly like dandelion seeds in springtime. If I feel betrayed or hurt, I draw the person on the paper and ask them the infinite questions which do not necessarily need an explanation, but are mandatory to be asked, while paper serves to be my mute listener, who pretends to understand my feelings. If I feel indecisive, I draw the roads of life to my near future decisions and ponder whether "to do or not to".
I think I've hurt paper the most in my short life of fourteen years so far.
I've scratched it, torn it, burnt it, cut it, crushed it, thrown it, stamped on it, brutally massacred it ; but it still doesn't judge me. Instead, every time I go near it, it presents it's different forms to me, each more appealing than the other.
That is what life is. It is the canvas on which you paint your memories on ; the fabric out of which you stitch knowledge ; the paper which you write stories on. You may destroy it in various ways, but it works in such a mysterious way that you find happiness and beauty even out of the blunders you've made.
You experience innumerable, inexplicable emotions, each teaching you about every necessary aspect to make you humane enough to prove your existence as worthy.
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