Comparable To Paper?

 

Comparable To Paper?

 

An Essay By KC

 

 The pages of your mind, worn soft and thin by many careless turnings, have begun to yellow. They shrivel and curl as if seeking shelter from the brutal hands; the probing fingers that leave the stain of experience in their wake. Their aged faces, wrought with countless wrinkles, smile kindly in spite of many hardships and their bodies, dusty with neglect, still yield at the familiar pressure of your thoughts. They recognize the feeling, and though having long since fallen into disrepair they struggle to position themselves, eager for an order.
        But orders rarely come anymore, hence the reason for their appearance. They’ve lazed about in disuse, or worse ill-use, content to satisfy only your most basic needs.
        Even the words written on them, the first few pages covered with the shaky letters of kindergarten, and towards the end the neat, cramped scrawl of adulthood, seem to run together in a signature that is all you. How fun it was to fill the early sheets with the sunny, summer days and forever failing crushes of junior high. The middle, heavily doodled to make up for lack of content (the teenage mind is always elsewhere), is marred with the painful realities of first loves and faltering confidence. And finally the last few pages, blank to leave room for future lessons.
        There these flipping pages, filling faster than your pen can compose, cheerfully record the trials and tribulations of your life and do so with the calm, steady nature of a mother. They have withstood the stormy fits of rage and golden days of happiness, carried you through the gray, rainy days of depression and flared sunsets of passion to inevitably deliver you to this day.
        The journey was at times dull, lightened only with the satirical humor you wield so deftly, and the company along the way alternately broke and mended your heart with precise skill, but you’ve remained strong and indifferent to the more trivial characters in this one act play; strong in a way that fortifies the page chronicling that chapter of your life.
        Those pages, the uncreased, sturdy, white ones, are plentiful but hidden among the plainer days. They lay concealed within their yellowing brethren, waiting for you to come across them; and represent the times you were brave. The times you loved unconditionally. The times you were merciful, or forgiving, or valiant. The times you came to someone’s rescue or had someone rescue you. The times you rejoiced in battles fought and won and the times you accepted defeat with grace. They are the milestones in your life, experiences you grew from and the stories to tell your children.
But between these happy moments lie equally dark ones. A few torn pages litter your consciousness; some are ripped neatly away, representing relationships that were mutually ended, but others left their stinging, spiky edges behind, the messy parting of ways by star-crossed lovers. They are stained with ink and ragged but near the binding, closest to your heart, they are still strong. They are the reminders of heartache and anger. The blotches, one for every time you clenched your fists, every grind of your jaw, and every inaudible battle you waged mentally, are mostly minor transgressions. They extend in order, marking the progression from playground grudges to your first marital quarrel. And while most are insignificant arguments… there are a few large ones. These are crises; family deaths, adulterous affairs, and individual failures. But, they have only spoiled precious pages, so be careful of them.
        Still rarer are the yellow post-it notes attached here and there. They are private conquests- important events that only you appreciate. Like your first kiss or your first steady job. Your ability to finally memorize a new language or the moment of personal clarity when you realized you wanted to get married. They are small events, not heralded by angels or sudden enlightenment of the universe, but rather sweetly simple in their composition and all the more important because of that.
        Amidst these pages there are ribbons separating the different chapters. The earliest ones are bright white, the innocent hue of infancy, and as you grew, replacing the purity with cynicism your colors darkened. Long gone are the days of your sunny golden childhood and the melancholy blue of adolescence, to be traded for the unforgiving charcoal gray of middle age.
        However, if you flip the pages fast enough the chapters melt into an indistinguishable arc of color, the regrets of the past are momentarily forgotten, and like a child, you are once more at peace with yourself.