Paper child

by Sara Orciari

Once upon a time, there was a paper child. He couldn’t cry, since certainly water wasn’t good for him. He had to be careful and not bump into things, because he was very fragile. Not to mention cutting blades and blazing fires, his nightmares.
He always stayed hidden in some dry and safe little corner, far from any danger.
He didn’t like other children who were intrusive and noisy, always wanting to scratch him with colours.
He ran from them, out of breath. “I am the only one who can write my story!” he used to say proudly.
He was an immaculate child, still to be told. Full of enthusiasm and expectations, he decided that, instead of letting chance guide him, he would start his story with the right word and the proper colour.
So, he started collecting pencils and markers: fin point, round-point, ballpoint, soft or hard nibs, lasting or erasable inks, bamboo, quill pens or chicken feathers. But he wasn’t ready yet, so he passed to collect paintbrushes of all kinds: flat, large, narrow, pasting brushes, round or thin, filbert or gilbert paintbrushes.
And then he passed to colours: oil, tempera, acrylics, ink, Indian ink, paint and varnishes. In years, he collected a full equipment.
Every day, he looked satisfied at the colours, and daydreamed about how they would look bright and gorgeous on his white skin.
They were wonderful, but none of them was enough wonderful to be the first.
He spent long days waiting in his lonely and greedy research, until he become tired, old and dried up. And he had no words left, just his white, immaculate, paper skin.