Sunday Apostasy

Sunday Apostasy

By Cristina Burduja

I am a piece of paper. I am ivory. I have something written on me. It was written this morning. Written with a dull pencil, it scratched my surface. I was just another piece of paper, until there was something written on me. Now I have to wait for someone to read me.

Monday morning: No trace of anyone in the room. What's written on me? What am I? A message, a code, a simple stupid word? Am I something important? Wait! I hear something. Oh, it's the cleaning lady, opens the windows. "Nooooo" I scream "don't, the wind will blow me away". She can't hear, she's too busy with picking every single white dot from the floor. He hates white dots on the floor. She doesn't stay long, I wish she did. I like humans; they always look confused when they're alone. I survived. The wind was busy with the curtains. It's a nice day outside. What a day! I wish I could go for a walk in someone's pocket.

Tuesday morning: I am woken up by the phone ringing, very loud. Why? What time is it? I hear steps. Someone is running. It's not him. Who is this lady? She doesn't even look at me. She answers: "Yes…yes…yes….I'm sorry, but he is not home at the moment, he is out of town for a week…no…I'm sorry, he asked not to be disturbed…no, he didn't leave any letter…I see…no problem…goodbye". I don't like her voice. It sounds like someone who drinks at least three raw eggs in the morning. She stares at the phone for a while. Walks out of the room. She smells interesting. Why didn't she look at me? I am just not important to her, but I know I am. I know I have something important on me. Something that needs to be discovered. I want to be discovered. I feel the letters pressing my surface, I know they are there. I am here. There is still time. I am sure someone will find me.

Wednesday morning: I can't believe it took me such a long time to realise that I have a purpose. I have a purpose. I want to exist. I do exist. What a morning! Isn't this the most beautiful morning you can ever see? Look at those trees outside, how they wish for someone to touch them, to write something on them, how they wish to be acknowledged. I can't remember being a tree, but they say this is where we come from. I feel we do. Can we ever be sure where we actually come from? Look at those birds! Those wings, spread as if to be able to hug the whole world. Are they really as free as they seem? I think they are. It's not for nothing that every single paper in this world dreams about flying at least once, even if we know that after touching the ground you can never be the same paper. I feel warm. I feel good. Do you hear that sound? The frogs by the lake. They sound divine. I need to talk. The pencil is always bored. All other papers don't like me anymore, they are envious. They want something written on them as well. I wish they could see how lovely this day is.

Thursday morning: Nice, another one of those mornings when I feel like dancing. Yes, I want to dance. Oh, I wish I was a leaf, a brown and red leaf, I could dance to the ground or I can be taken anyway and sent overseas, as a memory. Wait, if someone reads what's written on me, will they throw me away? I hate the trash bin, it's full of all this meaningless paper, nobody cares about. I have a meaning now, a purpose. He comes back in less than a week, he will get rid of me, I am doomed. This is just not fair. Please, cleaning lady, come back, open the windows, let the wind blow me away, I want to hide under the carpet. The carpet is warm. He's clever. He gathers all these white dots in need of touch. He gets to be touched every day. He even likes dirty shoes. I don't. They ruin me. They step over everything I exist for. Dirty shoes don't care about meanings. I want to be found after years, I want to be found by someone who will care. I want to end up old. Paper is so much more beautiful when it's old. I want to be old. Before being part of a notebook, I dreamed about becoming a book! There are so many books on this table, big books, small books, new books, old books, they all look happy. I am so close to them. This pencil, why did he choose this pencil? It's red. I guess he likes red. He also likes this desk. This desk is old. I hear it falling into the ground sometimes, slowly slowly it goes back to its roots. I like this desk. There are many things on it, they may look unorganised, but they are. Every morning he arranges everything on it. The books to the right side, pens and pencils next to them, the golden lamp on the left (so it won't shadow his hand while he writes), the phone right in the middle (it rings a lot), pieces of paper everywhere, different colours (there is something written on them too, for a very long time) and me, in his favourite notebook, under the limelight of his grandmother’s lamp. This is my home.

Friday morning: Letter? What a stupid piece of paper I must be, she said letter, Tuesday, on the phone, she said letter. Am I the letter? I am silly. How can I be a letter, I am only a piece of smooth ivory paper with something written on it. Why did he choose me, out of all these pieces of paper from his organised desk, why me? I was peaceful before, I had no worries. What is this? A kind of joke? Write something on me and then just leave, for a whole week? He is insane. I guess it's not one of my best morning moods. I'm a softy after all. I hate mornings. No, I don't. I hate this one. Oh, music. I hear music. I like music. Maybe he's back. Is he back? No, he left for a week. Maybe she lied. Did she? She smelled like a liar. Oh no, I am going crazy. I can't, I'm important. I have something important on me, letters, meanings. I wish someone would see me. Saturday, Sunday! Two more days. He'll be back soon. Oh, How I want to hear his voice. He has such a beautiful, masculine voice. He is a man. He is a real man. He can handle paper. He takes care of every single piece of paper. He loves paper. I feel special. I am such a lucky piece. I mean, I could've ended up on another desk, in someone else's house, never touched, never paid attention to. Or, even worse, I could've ended up on some shelf, in a shop, nobody wants the paper from the shelf. It's dusty. People hate dust. Paper hates dust. It's itchy and steals your identity. We only end up appreciating dust when we're old, then it covers us in time, without dust we're never old enough. Everything is so silent. I need silence. I am here, now.

Saturday morning: I hear voices. Something happened. What? Where? With whom? I can't understand anything. Come closer. Come closer! They are coming. Who are these people? Dirty shoes, awful! What are they doing? Why are they throwing everything around? Does he know about this? Stop it! Oh, no no no, they are coming to the desk. Read me, I'm important! What are they looking for? A letter? What letter? His letter. They say he wrote a letter. I don't remember that. He didn't. You're wrong. Stop moving things around. He won't be glad about it. What the hell is going on? Oh, someone reads me. Finally! What is that? Why are you doing this? Stop it!

Sunday morning: Cleaning day. Come, come, you confused cleaning lady, open those windows, I miss the sun. Open them. Thank you. What a light! It moves all day long across the room as if trying to inspect every corner, starts with the window, then slowly, like a snake, sneaks closer to the chair, the chair smiles and becomes more comfortable, then it crawls to the desk, cm by cm, it must have all the patience in the world, then it gets to the books on the right side, the books seem to float. I start to smile. I close my eyes. I feel warm. What a great feeling.

Monday morning: I hear music. It's the river. It's the birds. It's the desk falling into the ground. It's the light warming the grass. It's the leaves, dancing. It's everywhere. I am ash. He didn't come back.