Fate of the paper...

 Dear readers, the following lines you are about to read are a one-sided conversation between the pieces of paper I write on, and me. You might find it funny or awkward that why in the world a sane person will talk to some pieces of paper? But trust me, It's better to talk to a piece of paper, instead of roaming with people in search of true companionship, and coming back home, spending all your energy and time. So, let's not waste time and read all I have to say to the pages bound hard in my notebook.

My Dear Piece of Paper

Don't curse yourself that you are just a piece of paper - Blank and turning yellow with time. We all are getting old and our appearances are not like what they used to be. Last Sunday, I counted eight grey hair on my beard. But never mind, that's how life is, and we must appreciate the time we are passing on this planet. We should be celebrating this time, isn't it? We should never curse our fate for what we don't have or what we can't change.

I totally understand the fact that you would never be a piece of paper that will be preserved generation after generation. I'm not denying the fact that nothing precious will ever be written on you. I'm not ignoring the fact that one day you will be shattered or destroyed or burned to lit up fire on a cold day. But that's how life is - we actually don't know how our respective ends will be. But that doesn't mean that we should get depressed about thinking about how will we leave this planet.

No! No! No!

What should we think about is what I call "The At least Theory"

We should be thinking about that at least we are not this or not that. Like, in your case, at least you are not that piece of paper on which greasy samosas or moong daal ladoos with that leaky mint chutney are served. At least no one will ever be going to throw you in a bin or on a roadside pile of garbage - in a buzzing company of mosquitoes and flies. 

At least you are not the annual report card of a student who is brutally flunked in school. At least he is not hiding you from his parents in a dark corner of a flush tank. Just imagine, how stinky and moist it can be. Or worse, what if his Father finds you? Imagine he is holding you tightly between his fingers and throwing it harshly on the face of that poor child. It kills you from inside when a drama of this kind is created, and the reason is you. 

At least you are not hanging on a typewriter of a middle-aged solicitor, who is punching the typewriter's keys harshly to imprint some boring stuff on you. I find this process of continuous sound of tuk-tuk damn too painful. 

So, my friend, you should feel lucky that at least you are working as a medium for a crackhead to express himself. Whatever he is writing, just don't care about it. You just enjoy the romance, the sensuality, the softness with which the nib of a fountain pen glides on you. In an era where people mould the truth, writing dusty things, sharing it in the air, and saving it in the clouds - At least someone is writing on you - opening his heart out, and sharing his soul.

So don't curse on your fate, my friend, as you have no idea how lucky you are.