Mind Storm

Another piece of paper floated gently to the ground. Call me crazy, but every blank page has a certain life, for which it can remain exposed to a writer, for something of substance to be produced on it. After those minutes are gone, the page becomes paper; an object for which a tree was once cut somewhere. And I can’t use it once I have that thought on my mind. At the foot of the wall across my desk was a pile of crumpled pages. They were still pages because they had managed to have something written on them. However, just this simple fact is not enough to distinguish them from rubbish. How can a person be a human if all there is to him is filth? How can a piece of paper be anything but rubbish if rubbish is all it has to say?

I don’t understand how people keep their desks against the wall. Is it not extremely mundane; starring at a wall while one has nothing to be put on paper? How will I ever tear off a page and throw it across the room if I have wall in my face? Wouldn’t the rubbish I am trying to get rid of bounce back and hit me in the face again? A blank paper only needs to fall off the table since it did retain its purity. But a page which has ink on it but still doesn’t say anything worthwhile needs to be thrown as far away as possible. The latter had potential and all that potential achieved was to indulge in filth. The only thing it was worth, was to get the mind’s rubbish out of the way. Wouldn’t it be unfair to that page if the waste it has purified the mind off is not tossed away?

We waste so much time in efforts to save paper that we publish every piece of rubbish which bounced back to desks placed against walls. Has it never occurred to anyone that a blank white space in a newspaper, magazine, journal or even a book would be much more useful than an ugly jumble of words? The story of wasted paper is so much similar to that of mankind; the pure are stamped over by the filthy and those of substance are lost because the filth keeps bouncing back to the desks.