The Nonconformist Culture

Words never lie to a page
that holds no judgment.
They linger there—
like ghosts firmly pressed into a white sheet,
until a passing breeze
loosens their grip
and sends them away,
forgotten
as if they had never arrived.

The words are rarely lighthearted.
Though I did not step into a fairytale
when they struck the page—
and yet the page never flinched at my rhetoric.
It never resisted—
and for that,
I love it.

The page has shifted
from tangible to touch screen.
A black mirror now replaces
pen and paper.
The stroke no longer carries
the same weight or risk—
each character provisional,
each mistake
so easily undone.

On paper,
the words endure.
They remain visible,
never fully erased.

You can still see me there—
my errors,
my fears,
my unguarded thoughts.
What intimacy do I truly need
when pen and paper
share the deepest bond?

They know each other intimately—
secrets buried in ink,
dreams half-formed,
requests and pleas,
and quiet desires
spoken only in whispers.