The ink blotches, the pen marks, the paint spilled, pencil lines and charcoal smeared; all on the pressed, processed and compressed paper. The stamped, signed and verified documents summing up your whole being on a paper; the birth and death certificate, the admission documents and graduate degree, the passports, the tickets; all comes down to paper which wraps up our lives in the folds and creases, capturing it.
Paper is the proof of us being alive, no matter how advanced we may get; we rise with a paper and spend our lives on a paper. The books we read, the novels written, telling a story to be heard and be lived through; the words which flow through the ink, thoughts that bleed are absorbed by the paper capturing the love, anger, happiness, sadness and tears with lipstick smears; all that we are and breathe, somehow lands on a paper. The pages tell us tales of two lives or more, one that of the author’s telling and others of the readers’ experience, locked in the folds. The bookmarks put all on hold, but coming back to resume the journey through the pages, we turn the page and with each turning page the story of the book changes. Breathing in the fragrances locked in the folds of yellowed pages and tattered bounds, the pages still hold together by the slightest of the thread stitched, clinging to the spine of the book, with ink fading and dog-eared pages, the pages still hold together to make the story a whole. However, a page may fall out of the book, leaving the story incomplete but having a tale of its own. Meeting someone fleetingly, we make a story like that of a loose page from a book, a beautiful piece with no start or end, yet a story to tell, with the words touching to the core.
Changing the paper of the typewriter, you cannot change what is on it, the letters are stamped, the ink has dried; with re-writing a page it can change the story, but the stamp, the ink and the smell doesn’t change; the essence remains the same. We too are the pages of a typewriter, on our way to be a book, having bookmarks in our lives and being dog-eared, some falling apart from the spine with fading ink. We may not have it all together in our lives, with no plan working, nothing going the right way, but we remain ourselves in the end, with more pages to write, type, paint and add on as those pages may be corrected, re-written, written over, folded turned to origami or papier-mâché, or a sculpture; we remain ultimately, paper.