Lost and found.
The Paper Man's boat-house crumbled. Its ragged hull exposed for far too long to the relentless slap and tickle of water, the salt-stained windows witnessed a storm that was almost black with fury. He loved the familiarity his boat offered while adrift in places he didn't know, peopled by men strange and distant from his own sense of despondency and gloom.
The paper man had always been made out of paper, like all the other paper men that shared his little water world. As a boy, he had always been taught learn to live with being torn, taped up, wetted to a pulp; but he was also told that eventually, life would return to its normal flat existence and the paper man would know true two-dimensional happiness.
That is, until the Paper Man discovered that he could fold and twist himself in a brand-new dimension. The woman he loved, loved him back. For a while atleast. Her shapes were new to his newly emerging sexuality, and dazzled, the paper man struggled to keep his fragile mind unchanged from her unbridled energy.
His attempts to dazzle her with showers of undivided attention and vigor, sadly, were lost on the woman. He drugged himself with ecstasy and elation. Excessively, aggressively. As he tried to fold himself into her Alpha Male, she grew tired and tore him down the middle without mercy, ripped him into tiny pieces of paper and explained the worst truth about being made out of paper, the lesson of not leaving oneself dry and unable to reach water (to send one's paper heart into a desert with one oasis). He lost his third dimension, and lost himself in a 2-dimensional desert as it disappeared.
He walked through the desert and then from it. He reached a river, and saw a boat parked at its shore. Its owner was about twenty feet away, decomposed and stripped of all flesh by scavengers (or the Sun).
As he rowed away from the dust his nightmares of desert wasteland turned to dreams of open ocean, the desolate vistas of rolling dust replaced by flat, shimmering water.
Drinking at the bars alone, disheartened, spurning the meaningless women that sought his affection (be it for a night) the paper man's sense of belonging disappeared slowly but surely. His self-compassion and genealogy forgotten, all he had left was an insatiable urge to see clear blue water stretching out to oblivion. Tired of the muddy river, he enquired at every little town on the river about his dreams of salt and sea, never finding a motive to his instinct. Until his little boat floated into a little town called Renatus months after his escape from the desert, that is.
He met an old man there on the dock he tied his boat to, shredded into little strips just like the Paper Man was.
The Paper Man asked, "Who tore you?"
And the old man responded, "I did. I walked into those scissors eyes wide shut. I would walk into that gaping maw again if I had the chance. And I have had the chance, and I have already done it again."
Nonplussed, the Paper Man askedm "Can you tell me where I can find an endless desert...of water?"
The old man smiled and spoke quietly but surely, "Ah, you have been blessed with your obsession with water? All paper men are. The ocean is only a few miles down-river now. Your journey is complete."
"Why water? Why not sun, or mud? Why something so elusive? I knew water forever, and since she left, all I've had is dust and wind," replied the Paper Man.
"You have found water again, then. Row downriver, son. You will find what you seek."
The Paper Man heeded his words, and rowed. With every stroke, he began to find perspective. His two-dimensional world started to twist on end, fold and twist itself back into its former shape. He rowed his boat into the black storm and knew his impending doom.
The Paper Man's boat-house crumbled. Its ragged hull exposed for far too long to the relentless slap and tickle of water, the salt-stained windows witnessed a storm that was black with fury. The water began to creep over the side and the paper man finally began to lose his apathy. Looking at the rising water, he panicked and yelled to the West, "Old man, you send me to my death! There is no life in this water! Only Death!"
As his boat capsized, the Paper Man slowly softened and turned to a ball of pulp, floating on the angry ebbs and swells of the storm. He fought. He kicked and screamed like a newborn in a stranger's arms. He kicked and screamed the life out of himself, and resigned himself to his fate.
The Paper People say that he will wash up on an Eastern shore someday. Perhaps he will awaken and find a place with color and crayons. A place with no scissors, where he can live, really live! I hope he creases slowly and folds strong. If he finds the wrong life, I hope he finds the wisdom and the courage to jump into the Sea again.
The paper man had always been made out of paper, like all the other paper men that shared his little water world. As a boy, he had always been taught learn to live with being torn, taped up, wetted to a pulp; but he was also told that eventually, life would return to its normal flat existence and the paper man would know true two-dimensional happiness.
That is, until the Paper Man discovered that he could fold and twist himself in a brand-new dimension. The woman he loved, loved him back. For a while atleast. Her shapes were new to his newly emerging sexuality, and dazzled, the paper man struggled to keep his fragile mind unchanged from her unbridled energy.
His attempts to dazzle her with showers of undivided attention and vigor, sadly, were lost on the woman. He drugged himself with ecstasy and elation. Excessively, aggressively. As he tried to fold himself into her Alpha Male, she grew tired and tore him down the middle without mercy, ripped him into tiny pieces of paper and explained the worst truth about being made out of paper, the lesson of not leaving oneself dry and unable to reach water (to send one's paper heart into a desert with one oasis). He lost his third dimension, and lost himself in a 2-dimensional desert as it disappeared.
He walked through the desert and then from it. He reached a river, and saw a boat parked at its shore. Its owner was about twenty feet away, decomposed and stripped of all flesh by scavengers (or the Sun).
As he rowed away from the dust his nightmares of desert wasteland turned to dreams of open ocean, the desolate vistas of rolling dust replaced by flat, shimmering water.
Drinking at the bars alone, disheartened, spurning the meaningless women that sought his affection (be it for a night) the paper man's sense of belonging disappeared slowly but surely. His self-compassion and genealogy forgotten, all he had left was an insatiable urge to see clear blue water stretching out to oblivion. Tired of the muddy river, he enquired at every little town on the river about his dreams of salt and sea, never finding a motive to his instinct. Until his little boat floated into a little town called Renatus months after his escape from the desert, that is.
He met an old man there on the dock he tied his boat to, shredded into little strips just like the Paper Man was.
The Paper Man asked, "Who tore you?"
And the old man responded, "I did. I walked into those scissors eyes wide shut. I would walk into that gaping maw again if I had the chance. And I have had the chance, and I have already done it again."
Nonplussed, the Paper Man askedm "Can you tell me where I can find an endless desert...of water?"
The old man smiled and spoke quietly but surely, "Ah, you have been blessed with your obsession with water? All paper men are. The ocean is only a few miles down-river now. Your journey is complete."
"Why water? Why not sun, or mud? Why something so elusive? I knew water forever, and since she left, all I've had is dust and wind," replied the Paper Man.
"You have found water again, then. Row downriver, son. You will find what you seek."
The Paper Man heeded his words, and rowed. With every stroke, he began to find perspective. His two-dimensional world started to twist on end, fold and twist itself back into its former shape. He rowed his boat into the black storm and knew his impending doom.
The Paper Man's boat-house crumbled. Its ragged hull exposed for far too long to the relentless slap and tickle of water, the salt-stained windows witnessed a storm that was black with fury. The water began to creep over the side and the paper man finally began to lose his apathy. Looking at the rising water, he panicked and yelled to the West, "Old man, you send me to my death! There is no life in this water! Only Death!"
As his boat capsized, the Paper Man slowly softened and turned to a ball of pulp, floating on the angry ebbs and swells of the storm. He fought. He kicked and screamed like a newborn in a stranger's arms. He kicked and screamed the life out of himself, and resigned himself to his fate.
The Paper People say that he will wash up on an Eastern shore someday. Perhaps he will awaken and find a place with color and crayons. A place with no scissors, where he can live, really live! I hope he creases slowly and folds strong. If he finds the wrong life, I hope he finds the wisdom and the courage to jump into the Sea again.