Paper & Pencil
By: Mosaic and Curious
From: Dynamic Poets Crew
There was once a lonesome fragile piece of paper floating aimlessly through the cruel world. Dumbfounded was he, confused of all other sliver like paper cuts seeming to have found a piece of led drawn to its surface. He was gloomy about his colored features, the color was dun, dull grayish-brown. Awaiting for the ultra violet stencil, so purely mannered, gazing upon hopeful wishes that seem so distractive, but a search for lustful consciousness keeps an open mind.
Time is inevitably irrelevant, none can escape times evil clutches, but then again none can catch times bounty of blissfulness. That's the thing about time, none can perceive the definite clairvoyance . We are forever trapped in the mad endless cycle of harsh weathering, both mentally and physically scaring our ever being with the imprint of the sun's illumination and the nights blackening abyss.
Suppose the slivered dull paper had found his 'too good to be true' treasured dreamt stencil of purity and colorful blissfulness. He acceptably has nothing to offer but the blank lines bestowed upon his being from an inconclusive higher power, intellectually centrist. He learned to accept the fact about his dullness, and resent the opportunities he was given. With all this resentment he forgot how to search for a treasured love, or the intoxicating smell of a freshly sharpened pencil. The sweet touch of dramatic cursives intriguing tranquility. Nor does he want to remember, cause abusive words carved so deep can't be saved by the best of erasers, but still a lonely life is no life at all.
So he continues wondering the skies carried by the forever drifting winds of this earth's reality. Lonely, he has the realization that he may never find true love and will forever be a burden to his own self evident being. Just a sliver in this reality, forever trapped in his abstract disillusion of mental pondering. His thoughts day by day are never adjacent to each other. An endless cycle of vigorous self contradicting. Portraying his uncertainty of the intricate universe that coils it's bear cold sobering hands around his mortal neck.
Until his aimless wondering of the skies above settled him in a place unknown to his prior knowledge. He lay on the ground for the first time in many moons. A cold breeze shifting the golden brown autumn fallen leaves around him. The night was cold and damp and chilled his being down to the microscopic fibers that intertwined to form the thin being he has always been entrapped in. The stars seemed more vibrant and luminous than usual. There were no clouds in the sky and the moon shown in its full confident light.
The wind shifts and gently blows the paper from the cold concrete that he had fallen on shortly before. Just as he thought that he would ascend on another departure to the skies above for a few more months or perhaps more, he got snatched up by the most gracious bird he had ever seen. He did not know why this bird took a liking to him, after all he was just a drowsy depressed piece of paper with no worth to a creature that elegant. The moons glow gleamed off its charcoal feathers. A shiny coat of quills warmed the birds inner being, protecting him from the nights bitter cold.
Suddenly the bird released his razor sharp talons that pierced a whole right through the surface of the astonishing piece of art not yet made a realization for the eye to depict. Fluttering in the night as the paper dropped to the ground, not taken afloat again because there was an absence of wind on this eccentric night. As the paper neared the ground it noticed something magnanimously peculiar.
A rubbery base attached to a petite spear made of wood and lead sharpened to a point. Like a creator of simple perplexity, it has carved many words into the souls of papers similar to his own. Had he found his one true golden love made of graphite, wood, and rubber. She was gorgeous, a number two was stamped near the green metal holding the eraser in place. This reassured the validity of the gorgeous creator of imagination.
The paper settled to the earth once again. This time it was nestled right next to the lovely pencil. The piece of paper admired the creator of fate, the builder of the future, the constructer of the past. He had waited his entire life for this one moment to come along and become part of his existence to this corrupt place he had drifted for most his life. The pencil was silent, in shock herself. They sat side by side, if only a truly evil minded human would perhaps stumble upon them and etch his own mental existence of imagination onto the paper. Then and only then could the paper find true happiness once and for all. Until that day, he would have to sit and wait with his thoughts like he had done his entire existence. But now, he had somebody to share his thoughts with, and somebody that could reflect her own thoughts unto his mind. And maybe, just maybe, they could one day find all of the answers of the universe together.
