Before me, atop the freshly sanitized table, is a pad of paper. The pad is standard, ordinary. Beside this pad is a battered plastic case whose color of origin is no longer discernible after years of being colored over; this box is used to house crayons, markers, colored pencils and an assortment of pens all which are being offered for my using pleasure.
This offer is one I'll have to refuse because the assignment isn't one I feel I can complete.
They want me to write about my life. The task doesn't seem too complex, I can see that others in the room have really taken to the exercise, but I am stayed, subdued. I see a standard, ordinary pad of paper and while my years have not been long on this earth...I would like to think that it has not been a standard, ordinary life.
And what they don't know - couldn't know - unless I told them...
...is that paper is something reserved for a long distance relationship I've had since I was 5. A place to send secrets, hopes, fears, and dreams - a place to house my not so standard, ordinary life.
