Dawn. The sun lazily rises over the horizon over Niagara Falls, illuminating the pen that’s frantically leaving a trail across the paper. The fibers touched by the ink rejoice in their pigmented bath, stained to fulfill their purpose. The paper has bent imperceptibly under the pressure of the writing implement. I can’t help but imagine how, instead of the weight of penmanship, the thin pulped strands left untouched collectively bend towards their brethren, as if aching to be marked, to not be left behind, to not be resigned to a life unlived, serving only as a contrast against the Chosen Fibers. It is taking every ounce of self-control to not systematically paint the whole page in the notebook a deep, soggy blue with the pen; square millimeter by square millimeter, welcoming the page to be one with itself and its purpose. But alas. Only a fraction of the page remains touched by the inked ball. The remaining area rests at peace, basking in the early-morning sun rays as they find their way around the planet’s edge.
“Perhaps in a next life,” I whisper, shaking my head slowly at the gentle absurdity of my notebook-inspired levity. I’m looking at the interplay between waterfall and sunlight, making a mental note that of all my notebooks, I need to make an effort to recycle this one in particular. “Perhaps in the next life.”
A tourist overhears my muttering. She stands, leaning lightly on a walking cane, covered top to toe in rain gear in anticipation of the waterfall’s mist, drifting in from the cascading, thundering, moist inferno a few hundred feet away. She catches my eye. I can’t tell if it’s the mist from the water or if a tear is rolling down her cheek. I can’t hear what she says to me over the noise of the falls, but I can feel her words as they leave her lips, gently accented by a hint of a smile.
“Yes. Perhaps in the next life.”