Day 3

It was the tissue paper that did it.  That was the unravelling of it all.  And why no writing happened.

There was something about its strong fragility - how it softened and moulded to the edges of the writing book, and simultaneously protected it.

There was something in its light crinkle that stormed through the silence and made ears retreat into themselves.

There was something about the creases (which reminded me of Alison Watt's huge white folds of paintings) in which could never be ironed - the creases were an intricate part of its life story.  To iron them out would be to destroy and obliterate the story.

There was something in the defiance of gravity, as its corners pyramided into the air, and yet; and yet, they breathed softly at the slightest breeze.

The strength and fragility of tissue paper: its purpose being to protect something of more robustness than itself.  It could easily be screwed up into a ball or torn to shreds.  The book could not.  It could easily burn at the touch of a single match, the book could not.  And yet, as protector, to esnure the book's edges were not dimpled and its corners not knocked; to ensure that the squares of coloured material on the front were not punctured or marked in any way.

The book may go on to tell many lies and stories, but the tissue paper would always remain sincere in its paradoxes; innocent.

The tissue paper evoked remembrances of the scene in 'American Beauty' of a film reel being shown to a private audience, of a plastic bag being buffeted by the wind - divorced from its purpose of protection; in the penultimate paragraph of its short life, it takes on a new role; one it does not naturally inhabit - that of Art.

Words written: 0
Time spent with tissue paper: 115 mins.

All is well: perhaps tomorrow I'll write.