I was the paper you crumpled ruthlessly and threw in the bin beside your table; the unfortunate sufferer of your untimely anguish. And as I laid dejected down below, I glanced at the pad of fresh lined papers who were blessed to be written on with your spilled ink.

Envy ridden, I silently wished for one of them to bear the same fate as me. Probably then, I could share my uselessness and grief with someone else besides the caged walls of this claustrophobic bin.

Perhaps, my fate was wait, until I was to be buried along with my soul mates; lost in the brink of time. Or perhaps, recycled to serve some usefulness for a while.

Such is my tale. What’s your story?

~S.

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