papyrus

on the trials of writing:
matches wants to take the scraps of himself that have experienced, that are saturated, and billow and billow them into lofty clouds, colorful when the sun of the eye hits them. float them like kites, running alongside a hill and chasing momentum. he wants them like water particles, each reflecting back some stance or perspective of the reader in some way or another, each mirroring or sieving some self-same sediment collection in the basins of thought pools. he wants people to find, by way of random foray into flipped pages, some shells, sand-dollars, and shards of sea-glass moving at scintillating speeds but polished so as to be solid, silken bubbles, brushing against the ridges of a fingerprint. if a thought, a reflection of one, can be possessed...how interesting a phenomenon! how noble to be an object swathed in memory, to be inert matter and to interact with the feathered fingers of a dawning perception. matapult (a recent domino name; snicker) can think of no better purpose for a tree (aside from the serenity of a natural existence, combing winds in the rainforest) than to be sheared into a piece of paper....not one to be casually timestamped and submitted to the HR department, but rather one that engages the colors of the mind....a painting, a poem; a paper-mache donkey, an origami hippopotamus. to be inbued, flagged, commissioned with the development of a mind must surely be an aspiration of even the most hard-hearted of the rocks.

it is admittedly odd to be typing such a treatise on a keyboard and internet connection, but surely these optic fibers and plastics and magnets came from some location other than the factories, initially.