Lover of Paper

I have always been drawn to blank paper. I could spend hundreds of dollars buying empty spirals and reams of blank paper. I love seeing it transform from a barren, crisp sheet into a mess of words and thoughts and pictures before my eyes and at my hand. You don't understand my love for paper. I literally salivate at the thought of fresh notebooks, untainted by expression. I live to destroy the pristine whiteness and create. Part of me hates to ruin the perfection but part of me relishes the chance to demolish and blemish and stain the snowy whiteness. I live for that moment when the pen hits paper for the first time. The first line. The first scar. I love how paper softens and tears and bends with use so in the end its limp and greyed and fragile. I love marking up printed sheets and doodling to fill in every corner. There is something beautiful to be found in the ravaging of new paper. The carnage of eraser bits and pencil tips is stunning. The way a new spiral can be demolished from stiff to malleable, immaculate to disheveled, bland to enthralling, is just astonishingly appealing to me. I am of a lover of paper and of pen and of the marrying of the two.