Wednesday, May 28, 2014

Rock, Paper, Scissors

Days like today make me wonder what I'm made of.

When the going gets tough and I get tougher, I think I'm a rock. I'm strong. I'm granite. But then there are those scissors. They're sharp and when they come biting, I just don't have what it takes to crush them. I'm no rock. I'm no scissors either. I guess that means I'm paper.

I'm paper because everyone I meet who has survived the streets is a rock. The best I can ever hope to do is to cover them, not in defeat, but to share peace with them. Peace at last.

I'm paper because those scissors, when they come snipping, they get right into the meat of me and slice me up. I'm going to tell you I'm fine, but I'm not. I'm just paper, after all.

I'm paper because you can fold me seven times, but no one will get that eighth crease.

I'm paper because even ripped, torn, wet, and erased, what was written upon me became real when the ink dried, even though no one need ever read the words.

I'm paper, and that's all I would ever aspire to be.

4 comments:

Ellen Prewitt said...

I love the image of the ink drying but you still knowing what it says - a lovely post

Marisa said...

Thanks, Ellen! I have to say, there are few things more simply comforting to me than the image of ink drying under the nib of my pen. I'm glad it struck you well.

Ivy said...

You're also paper because regardless of how many times you're folded, if folded the right way, you always seem to fly ;) So I guess you're not JUST paper...you might be origami.

Marisa said...

Ivy, you are too much. Thank you.