Paper...
One picks me up, tears me into large, rough scraps and leaves me in a pile to wait for the wind, who obviously doesn't want me either, to blow my ragged pieces far and wide.
Another comes along and reads what is written on me... he finds me intriguing and tries to pick up the scraps of me, unable to trace a few that have hidden themselves amongst the surroundings. After a bit, he gets bored and tore my larger scraps into smaller bits with rough, burnt edges. He too leaves me to the wind, and she again dutifully scatters me far and wide.
I am a frequent visitor and she knows she hasn't seen the last of me.
Yet another comes along and gathers up my pieces - or what he is able to find of them. There are now all shapes and sizes in the pile he is able to compile. He too bores of me soon and tears me further, into tiny, irrepairable scraps of paper with random, illegible, fading bits of insight scrawled on a few.
This time though.. the wind is tired of me.
She collects all my parts; big, small and tiny, and hides me. She leaves me in a corner to fade and die with age as she knows I am now of no use.. or value... to anyone.
