23 May 2008
The Tearable Nature of Paper
)Published on May 23rd, 2008 @ 05:27:08 pm, using 542 words, 37 views
One day, his mouth dissolved from a rigid line, a stiff lipless line into a blur, a blotted out line behind which words might’ve been shaped and plans traced. But those particular words had made their way to paper instead. Invisibly, soundlessly, mercurially attracted to ruled white sheets.
And from that paper everything emerged and unraveled - the whole gamut of a compressed story, from A to Z and the couple of letters there were in between - the convex/concave form of a smile easily bending to that of a capsized one. Capsized like a boat that was going nowhere. A paper boat like the ones you learn to make as a child by folding paper repeatedly in such a way. Paper boats are part of our collective legacy, I guess. Paper boats and paper hats. Like lullabies and later proverbs. Things we borrow and adopt but never really own.
She’d ask herself in the middle of the most mindless of chores, feeling ambushed by these unannounced thoughts: ‘What does it mean to have someone’s pictures in your possession?’ Pictures sent, not taken. Pictures you’re not in. Pictures of places in the world that are not yours to see. Pictures that don’t belong to you in any sense of the word. Mementos of someone’s youth. Precious… or so they should be. Misplaced and not looked for. Not missed. Glossy rectangles you should feel the impetus to run to during a fire. ‘What does that mean? Does it mean anything at all if they’re misplaced and forgotten? Or is it just paper?’ Tearable… terrible thought…
The most satisfying conclusion she ever managed to reach was: meaning is as relative and personal as a choice of profession, as taste… in clothes, food, color… Not meant to be shared. Merely shown. ‘Here. This is me. Does it ring a bell? Do I?’ And when bells ring… that’s when you know you’ve got something. That’s when you feel hands are meant to be held.
‘Words are not always there to be believed,’ it occurs to her. Not in the context of candid exchanges and not in the context of deception, either. Somewhere in between, somewhere in the realm of grey - which may turn out to be nothing more than decoration. Enhancement of a particular atmosphere, of something promising. A little well-intentioned push towards what you’d like a moment to become. Words don’t always spring from a truthful source. Words sometimes spring from an overly optimistic, naive place.
The blurriness that one day sets in serves a purpose. A parental sort of purpose. It tucks a chapter in. A chapter and the nomadic ever changing characters at the center of it. It half covers an episode. It half hides it, prepares it for nightfall - for the darkness of night to come in and do what it does best. Gently. For time is gentle. The longer the stretch of it you manage to walk along (patiently and acquiescently), the gentler it proves to be.
Radiohead - There There/Hail to the Thief
This post is the creative work of Iris Watts Hirideyo and is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License.
Writing, fiction, time, letters, concave, convex, paper, boats, hats, words, smile, thoughts, questions, conclusion, folding, legacy, meaning, taste, chapter, character
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