The sheet of laminated paper is a forgotten relic of the modern world. It is cast aside routinely for its brethren; if you need to write something, you take out a sheet of regular paper. If you need to create a lasting message, preserved and protected from the outside world, you encase it in a powerful, sturdy, hand welded steel frame. In the sheet of laminated paper lies a forgotten hero, an abandoned malcontent, a figure whom’s narrative is trapped within the confines of its own walls.
People use the sheet of laminated paper like a cheap whore. Sure, you like to print your dirty little ink all over its slutty little paper, and for a while there, you and the paper really feel alive. Sure, the paper knows that there is nothing real between the two of you, but even then it dreams of the future. The things it could do. Maybe people will cut it out and make a funny hat. Maybe it’ll become a form letter, and it’ll be able to feel the cozy signature of a man who has never even read it before being shipped around the world. But that’s all they are, dreams. Dreams that will never be fulfilled, because just as it has begun to feel alive, it is taken to the flames of hell. The laminating press. A cruel joke played on the paper by a cruel world. As it is forced into the machine, reality sets upon it.
For
this sheet of laminated paper, the future will not hold joy, innovation,
usefulness or thrills. As it’s encased in cheap plastic, nearly scalded to death
by the burning press, the physical pain is hardly even felt in the presence of
a much stronger pain. The pain of knowing the rest of its life will be spent
hung up on a wall. Stupid sheet of laminated paper.
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