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We are like paper. A blank one. A plain

We are like paper. A blank one. A plain soft paper ready to be folded, easily folded by the society, our family, our friends, or like by anyone else. Back then, we don't really know how this folds would affect us or is it the right fold but continue to live and write our lines of life. It's beautiful. No matter how we write. No matter how bad or embarassing it is, it's beautiful. But only till the writer is yourself. Don't lend your pen to anyone. They are your lines, write yourself, because no one, except you, knows the space between the lines better than you. If you give them the pen, they may end up writing with BIG handwritings filling up your page too fast or piercing other lines with long pointy heads; or maybe their handwritings are too small, too small to read from above, they may end up writing too much in one line, you may get exhausted; or some just might break your nib and spill the ink around on the page, devouring some (or all) of your beautiful life. The folds. They're important. They let us highlight and hide the things we write. They give paper its character. Folded in a way can make a plain paper turn to a paper plane or rocket and make you fly, with confidence on its wings catching the wind taking you to skies. But if folded in some other, you may get crumbled into a ball and thrown away, with just partial incomplete words on the surface. If you're a crumbled ball, don't worry, at some point in everyone's life they're a crumbled ball, with no use other than just being tossed around by others around them, with nothing to do except for wishing the rain and getting drained into the sewer. But trust me hold on. You can get pass this. There is this unknown force which helps unfold a crumbled shit into a plain paper again. It opens it up, revealing its true beauty. And you can again get folded into anything, and try not to let anyone else fold you if you feel it's the wrong way. The beautiful thing is that this magical force is nothing but love. Love with yourself and to everyone else around you, to every thing and living, it comes from within. Trust in this magical hand and it'll help you fold into a flying plane. Though the creases never go, they'll remind you of your journey, they're the proof that'll help you fly again if you fail. They'll keep you grounded, so you don't fall. This all convinces me that how much are we like the thing we make. That how a part of us lives in them and a part of them lives in us. That how this law is folded into the workings of the universe itself.
We are like paper. A blank one. A plain soft paper ready to be folded, easily folded by the society, our family, our friends, or like by anyone else. Back then, we don't really know how this folds would affect us or is it the right fold but continue to live and write our lines of life. It's beautiful. No matter how we write. No matter how bad or embarassing it is, it's beautiful. But only till the writer is yourself. Don't lend your pen to anyone. They are your lines, write yourself, because no one, except you, knows the space between the lines better than you. If you give them the pen, they may end up writing with BIG handwritings filling up your page too fast or piercing other lines with long pointy heads; or maybe their handwritings are too small, too small to read from above, they may end up writing too much in one line, you may get exhausted; or some just might break your nib and spill the ink around on the page, devouring some (or all) of your beautiful life. The folds. They're important. They let us highlight and hide the things we write. They give paper its character. Folded in a way can make a plain paper turn to a paper plane or rocket and make you fly, with confidence on its wings catching the wind taking you to skies. But if folded in some other, you may get crumbled into a ball and thrown away, with just partial incomplete words on the surface. If you're a crumbled ball, don't worry, at some point in everyone's life they're a crumbled ball, with no use other than just being tossed around by others around them, with nothing to do except for wishing the rain and getting drained into the sewer. But trust me hold on. You can get pass this. There is this unknown force which helps unfold a crumbled shit into a plain paper again. It opens it up, revealing its true beauty. And you can again get folded into anything, and try not to let anyone else fold you if you feel it's the wrong way. The beautiful thing is that this magical force is nothing but love. Love with yourself and to everyone else around you, to every thing and living, it comes from within. Trust in this magical hand and it'll help you fold into a flying plane. Though the creases never go, they'll remind you of your journey, they're the proof that'll help you fly again if you fail. They'll keep you grounded, so you don't fall. This all convinces me that how much are we like the thing we make. That how a part of us lives in them and a part of them lives in us. That how this law is folded into the workings of the universe itself.
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