4.543 billion years ago,
Amidst swirling storms of nothingness,
And the unheard whisperings of stars,
A tiny pebble, insignificant and unnoticed.
Paper, created, emerging from its machine,
Still warm and yet firm.
Not long after,
Morphing, growing, changing,
A tiny pencil dot moving slowly,
Different patterns all across,
Then, our story begins.
Starting as unimportant beings,
But changing into something
The slightest drops of ink appear,
But not quite, not yet.
An unpredictable series of changes,
Raise some and lower others,
On the pedestal called
Some marks fade, leaving only small spots,
Others whitened out,
Civilizations rise, empires fall,
Slowly but surely approaching,
Different colors, merging,
Overwriting, creating the jumbled but beautiful mess
We observe today.
But, before we know it,
Encroaching upon the world,
From all corners.
The paper starts to fold,
Symbols of age becoming more,
And more prominent.
Soon there will be nothing,
A large space of emptiness in our imaginations,
That could morph into anything;
Slowly the corners lift as they approach the center,
Collapsing in on itself,
To be used again,
It must be recreated.
But even so,
It will re-enter the world,
With a few more crinkles than last time,
A few more blemishes.