Do empty books and pages feel jealous about their written and printed counterparts? Or are they happy that they still remain blank and untouched? If I was one, I would want to be written on. Because I think that’s the most eventful day of its life. Once a great tree, probably a tall bamboo; chopped off, cut, grinded and crushed to pulp; treated with chemicals and other additives; transformed and transported from the middle of the greens to the incessant humming of machinery and finally to end up in someone’s hand. Yes, after all that’s happened to what was the parts of a sheet of paper, it would want to be used. To be filed with words and numbers or even better to be drawn and painted upon. A fitting end after so much agony.
What about the papers that get thrown away with nothing much written on them? They’ll have to be sad for this logic to work. The ones that become boats and airplanes are the luckier, I think. The joy that they bring to a kid is nice to be associated with.
The pages would have different stories to tell on how they feel about this. I don’t think they’ll be pleased, and their sentience could someday be a treat to our existence.
Imagine. One morning you wake up to find that the pages that you’ve dog-eared last night in a book that you’ve been reading for a while comes to life. Librarians would have nightmares. For imprisoning them in glass cases, only to be allowed contact with outside world for a very short duration. Or would they? Coming to think about it, they don the role of their guardians. So maybe they’ll be left alone. As for the rest of us. Well, it would be nice to learn how to operate a flamethrower.
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