This is my container. It may be flat and white, but we’ve all seen Mary Poppins and her magical bag, besides, it is the deepest darkest place I know.
In my paper world, I boldly speak to millions of hearts with several words. I stand at a podium, with nothing but crumpled loose leaf, and I’m changing the world, one wrinkle at a time. I pour upon the gathering crowd, with a smooth comforting voice, the product of my emotional pain, of my struggles, and of my consequential belief in God. And with every revelation of my heart through poetry or essays, thousands are touched, converted, and intoxicated with the sap of my closeted-skeleton tree. I peel my home grown life-onion before them, layer by layer, and the dams of self pleasure overflow within their eyes — a gush of water quenching the stale cracked soul.
Yet, In my paper world, I soar through space, too. Galaxy hopping, dodging black holes, cascading through space-time, falling up, and jumping down, vertigo…
But, on paper, nobody dies. On paper, babies live. On paper, everyone loves compassionately thy neighbor. On paper nobody does drugs. On paper nobody kills. On paper there can be no crime. On paper, I understand everything. And on my paper, I live, think, and do freely.
Every sheet of paper, from wax and stylus, to the wet sand on a moonlit beach, is a container for emotions, a flask for memories, and a canteen for personal truths — a tear-filled alembic, refining the essence of life. Alas, I believe in my paper world, where I am bold to speak the truth, where everyone loves, where God reigns, where mercy flows like the rays of the morning sun, where my humanity withers, and my soul blazes to life, where my words hold the cold, dying hands of society, and my message, a blanket of love, warms the hearts of sinners like me.
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