Mortal Things

It is no use crying over paper.
It can be bent.
It can be burnt.
It can be marred, spoiled, stained.
It can be cut into thousands of pieces, folded into new forms, or simply blown away.

It is no use crying over beauty.
It can be destroyed just as easily.

And yet. There is an "and yet."

It is upon paper that we have written our story.
We choose, of all mediums, the fragile one.
God writes on stones, and yet we write on the fabric of trees.
Trees that live and die as we do.
What does that say about God?
What does that say about us?

We choose paper. We choose beauty.
There is something irresistible about mortal things.
Perhaps we fear that which will outlive us.
So we store our books in houses that can burn.
We keep our letters in boxes that can mold.
We love beauty when time has already set its target.

We yearn for paper flowers.
We cry when they are crushed.
And yet we still manage to throw them away.
After all, some things were not made to last.