The unspoken words

Notes from the “black paper“

She was always sorry for all the pieces of paper that exist in this world and that she would reach. Because on each sheet, she wrote a word, a sentence, a thought, an intention ... Each sheet was a witness to what was constantly happening in her life at different intervals. And yes, she was sorry that all those pieces of paper witnessed all her frustrations, a place where she could vent all her nervousness, rage and rage. They were often subjected to tearing, shredding, and throwing into the fire. Those pieces, seemingly so light, were the bearers of the greatest burden. With each letter written, their weight increased immensely. And the end was not in sight. It was not known how long those leaves could withstand. How much cargo is needed so that they can no longer bear ...

    Opening those records was like opening the door to her heart. An insight into a small part of what she never told anyone but her eternal companion. The most plausible account of what was going on in her head, a clear picture of what was burning in her heart. She feared that one day all those records would collect too much dust so that she herself would not be able to read them. Dust from their constant accumulation and multiplication. Everything she could not tell others went straight to the paper. Because only the paper was  obedient. It was able to listen to her without giving criticism, advice, comments ... The paper just listened to her quietly and was silent, and she heard her own words slowly echoing and playing on the white sheet which was slowly filled with black dots. Black dot in a white wall - it was slowly becoming a white dot in a black wall .... A wall that does not collapse, but only builds and grows more and more. As the ink flowed and left traces behind, she knew those traces would never be erased. In her case there was no corrector or rubber - everything was permanent. Timeline dо not exist in the real world.

    By closing the pages of her book, her sincerity was also closed. She  would put on her masquerade costume and would go out to dance with the other masks. No mask was sincere, so it didn't have to be her. The only time he could see her real face was when she was alone with her pen and paper. Her problems were entrusted to them. No one at the masquerade had to know them. She moved among people with great courage and self-confidence, with a smug smile on his face. A smile that she kept in any case, even when someone would stand with a knife around her neck.

    If there was a desert outside, she would never ask for a glass of water and admit that she was thirsty. The thirst for her was an unknown thing, except of course the thirst and the hunger for revenge. It was something that never faded. It blew in like the north wind of Siberia. Wind that can not hurt or destroy cacti that are full of thorns from the dry sand and the damned drought. It was the same with her. When she survived so many storms, would an ordinary cold wind blow her away?