Memory Fragments: Probity

Master Origami & The Prince Of Paper

There was kingdom, long ago, made of burnt paper that smelled like black roses
They used their never-ending smoke and fire to power their whole scorched territory
A prince, the master folder, sought to create perfect origami. But ideas were put to red hoses
He was the prince of paper. A craftsman of legend, and a master of folding his own story

One thousand were the cuts he got, yet equal amount came in ideas from his bleeding
One thousand citizens came alive. Each with their role, they served purpose to the prince
For each droplet, a figment of his self. For each folding, a secret hidden in-between the reading
He who could read the self of another would be master of origami. A bloody truth to evince

The prince lost more and more blood as he created more and more origami crafts
The bigger the concealment, the bigger the drop and splash he had to do in the paper
He was getting weak. His hands, feeble and pale, more and more alike his thinly drafts
He struggled a lot, but in his final moments, he folded one last thing: a wallpaper

Meant to serve as the world his creations lived in from now on, it was complex and layered
Just like the world we live in, the world of paper could be seen as fictional, yet alive and real
Wars arose. He who held the only truth would be granted the mercy of an unfolding Bayard
Fearless and chivalrous. Those who gave their life in exchange for knowledge of their red teal

Each time someone got unfolded, the world became a little more cohesive and simpler
Like a two-dimensional truth, when seen from above, all is revealed and understood
The paper people knew that, within them, there lied the truths of a make-believer
Who was this master of origami? He who revealed the secrets of the prince for good

Like deciphering the truth of godhood, the paper people sought to uncover their own
Ripped and teared were some of them. Combined and mangled to create new lore
Plastered together into the wallpaper, they were one with the world. One they had known
It hurt to see family and friends unfolded. But the truths revealed, each time, a bit more

This continued on and on. For decades and decades, until there were only two
The first one, and the last one. A self-proclaimed prince, who started the wars
And a self-proclaimed master of origami. One called who, yet it had but one clue
Their world was empty now, yet built by the knowledge of its people at their cores

The mystery of this yore-bound world was just as old, yet it always felt fresh
With each unfolding, a new word deciphered. With each word, a new bloody message
The prince could not wage a new war, for the world was silent and made of flesh
He carried the drops of blood of all slain. As a prince to his people, of their word, a collage

The master fostered the idea of unfolding the prince, as he had all the knowledge absorbed
It was mangled and scattered, but all contained in his own body. Like an encyclopedia
The prince knew all, yet it had no one to share it with. That knowledge had to be sorbed
Back into the world, for it was to be completed. The master told the prince: "You of intermedia"

The prince was a bridge between the world and its people. This was the one clue missing
"Let me unfold you, my prince. The world is yours, yet you are of the world first and foremost"
"It is your duty as its prince. Its mystery. Its message to us, to you, we cannot be dismissing"
"So be one with it now. Return the life you carry to it. Quench and color this world's riposte"

And so, the prince agreed to it. He let himself get unfolded by this master of origami
Little by little, all the blood returned to the world. All the secrets and truths, back into it
It was no longer burned, but wet and heavy. This was what it was always meant to be
The master of origami finally knew the truth. His craft found as he finished his bloody confit

A paper mache world. Wrapped around by the wallpaper, he could see beyond the words
A god was born that day. He who gave his blood for his world. A true prince turned tale
It did not matter where the blood came from. A god slayed, for another to drink the curds
The art of craftsmanship. Were paper is used, the world and its people shall never grow stale