Dear Paper

Writing with quill

Dear paper,

I have come to you again

Like the faithful come to church,

Or the drunkard to the tavern,

Or the lover to his naked lover on the bed.

I come to you rejoicing,

I come to you crying,

I come to you cursing,

I come to you smiling,

I bring with me my many sorrows

And my few vain and pathetic joys.

I come to you sincerely,

With an open heart and an inquiring mind,

And I tell you everything:

You know more about me than my mother.

Still, there’s so much more that I would like to share with you…

I know you are patient,

I know you will listen,

I know you will not judge, condemn, or sigh.

That is wonderful about you, dear paper,

Your kind impartiality.

You are the mirror of my soul,

My memory machine,

A history I can rewrite,

A future I can bend according to my will.

You are here today, and I know you will be here tomorrow,

And the day after, and next month, and so long as I’m here you will be too,

Always open, always curious, always ready to listen,

And that, dear paper, comforts me.

Your silent presence in my life,

Gives me courage, hope,

Makes me want to carry on

With this messy business called existence,

Gathering experiences that I can then reveal to you.

Dear paper, you are my accomplice and my friend,

My sister, my mother, and my lover too,

Upon my word, dear paper, I am in love with you.

24 thoughts on “Dear Paper

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