Letters from the Most Patient Friend

"Paper is the most patient friend" - Words once written a diary, the most famous diary that I know of, Anne Frank's. Since then it has been sprawled across many other pages, including my own. If it is true, then congratulations, you have just met the most patient friend. I am paper. More accurately, I am Celia Thompson's Diary. From one green cover to the other, I am stuffed with description of one girl's life. She has given me every secret, every detail of every kind of heartbreak she has experienced. I know more about Celia Thompson than her own mother; yet I have been abandoned. She signed her signature on the very last page after bidding me farewell, and shut me forever. Or so I thought.

It all started when Celia dug me out of the little black box that she purposefully keeps dusty at the back of her desk drawer. I thought it was to add a third diary to her collection, I am her green one and there is her red one which likely holds another key to her memories; I think they're happier ones though because she has opened that one 3 times since I was deposited into this box. She reaches in her hand and there is no diary, so I know she is going to pull out her red diary. Except she doesn't. She grabs me. She flips open my cover and starts reading the first page. The thing about paper is that it doesn't really have emotion, but it has the capability to hold more emotion than most are aware. Think of love letters, suicide notes and mothers day cards; none of them have the emotion of the paper, yet each one holds the emotion of the person who put the pen down and in unique hand writing wrote what they were feeling. Paper cannot be sad but it can be covered in the depression of a single mother who can't hold down a job. Paper can't be happy either but it can be filled with the delight of a child who has just visited Disney World for the first time. I am not upset yet I have tasted every moment of depression, anger, lonliness and pain that Celia Thompson poured into me for months. As she turns each page, she is reminded of all the hardship she has endured and the very little joy she has received. In many places she adds notes in red pen to her writing such as "you never cared", "why did I ever bother?" and "I tried". When she finally reaches the last page in me, she scribbles over all of the writing.

THIS IS OVER, I CAN'T TAKE IT ANY MORE, I AM FINISHED. GOODBYE! AND I'M SORRY.

With that she carries me towards her paper shredder. As I am about to no longer be Celia Thompson's Diary I somehow know, I am the last thing that will ever see her alive.