There is nothing more simultaneously delicate and durable than paper. I identify with it most because I pretend I can withstand the abuse of being harshly doodled upon during office meetings whilst feigning to listen to the latest update on an antiquated software item that can’t be truly updated because no one else uses it in any other corporation. I pretend it doesn’t matter when people throw me away for the most unexpected and seemingly arbitrary reasons. I can be ripped up and put back together again in my next incarnation as a coffee cup so it’s fine, I tell myself (in spite of the fact that this means I will still be doomed to exist in an office setting in the next life as well).
When my supply has been exhausted inside of any one of the five to ten industrial-size printers throughout the building, I’m accustomed to being found again in another 8 1/2″ x 11″ pack. People can sense that I’ll always be around, simply available whenever they need me because, well, what other purpose have I got to serve? Paper and I are as one. And we’re both also very white–though paper is begrudged less for this than I am.