Does a piece of paper possess a soul?
Does a lonely sheet wait longingly to be touched?
Does an unopened notebook feel an emptiness that it can't find a way to fill its own pages?
Do reams lay about in an attempt to define themselves, seeking the knowledge of what they are to become?
And are the pages actually blank, or do they possess a destiny from the moment of their creation, perhaps even before that?
Would paper that becomes a poem have become a poem in the hands of another?
Would a tablet be filled with drawings no matter at the point of whose instrument it lay?
And could it be that the pulp itself contains a part of the soul of the tree from whence it came?
And so, do drawings, and poems and stories grow on trees?
If leaves could talk, would they whisper fantastic tales into the wind?
If branches reached to the earth, would they draw majestic works upon the ground?
Perhaps if you look and listen closely enough, they do ...
And do the stories of those buried in the earth absorb into the trees through the roots?
And the faces we see in the grain of wood, are they actually those whose stories have been absorbed?
And so then, does the paper made from these trees carry that vibration to the writer who sits with the blank page?