Forgotten, Yet Somewhere

The Confessions of a Sheet of Paper

A blank sheet of paper turned by my daughter into a story

I was born with white skin. I am stretched out and smooth like a fresh but unfinished breath. Like a window to infinite worlds and scenarios that could have been written. But no one chose me. Not even a trembling, fearful hand placed a stray letter on my shiny skin, not even a bleeding draft was I for any occasion.

I am a promise of something that will never be.

And now the moment has come to admit that I feel my edges aging under the weight of this great and oppressive nothingness. Time passes, and I am turning into a dusty archive of what never happened. So many possibilities: sonnets that never took a breath, ideas without the courage to be born and be great, sins and secrets that have suffocated in silence.

Perhaps if I had been filled, I would have, in fact, become more of a burden. Perhaps a sealed destiny or a story told, one that then became an old and closed door. But like this – empty, smooth, and untainted – I am all those infinite possibilities together.

An endless intersection crossed by roads that lead nowhere.

I rarely feel the tip of a pen hovering, trembling above me. Hesitating, it slips, and then falls back into indecision. A hand rises, stops, looks at me – and gives up. It is not a rejection but…