The Book

Somewhere, there is a book. It is old and well worn. Its pages are dog-eared, and there are little threads unraveling from its soft gray cover. It is not especially long, and it is not especially short, but it has a weight to it. It appears quite unremarkable, something that could easily be tossed aside or overlooked, but when you picked it up, you felt it. The stories. The history. It wanted to tell you. It wanted you to listen.

There is a page missing from that book. You ripped it out, ripped it in what seemed to be a rather careless way. Now the book is broken. You have cast it aside, taking only a piece of it, leaving it for someone else to find.

You carried that page in your pocket. It has stayed with you through the years, witnessing each of your successes and each of your failures, each moment of joy and each moment of heartbreak. You have changed since you first found it, changed since you took it for your own. And now it is time to give it back. To give it away.

There is a pair of scissors in your hand. They are old and dull, but they will do the job. Snip, snip. Paper falls, curling around you. It is no longer ragged and ripped. It is now a perfect square.

You take your time. Each fold must be precise, each crease pressed flat. Minutes crawl by, and neither your eyes nor your hands waver. And finally, finally, you spread out its wings.

It is beautiful. Perfect. It looks ready to leap out of your hand, to fly all over the world. 

Real wings are magnificent things. They are strong and elegant, built for flight. True marvels of nature. Paper wings are thin and fragile. You cannot fly on paper wings.

But these words must be heard. They are no longer yours; they belong to the world. The world needs to listen. The world needs to be told.

You cannot fly on paper wings.

But what if? Maybe, just this once...