Why not

imagine yourself to be this tiny piece of paper, probably lodged in the corner of your bag, forgotten, until came a random moment where somebody felt like rummaging through it, emptying it of its contents, turning it inside out, and then comes you, floating, weightless, landing on somebody’s lap.

Why not wish that she pick you up, turn you over in her hands, and then slowly, carefully fold you in the shape of a boat, an origami, a remnant of your childhood, remember? Why not hope that she carries you reverently, as she leaves the room, walks outside, and then crouches down at the canal: where you wait, suspended, wanting it to be over, wanting it to happen, whispering, let me go, let me go, let me go now, and then—she spreads her fingers wide, and you, little boat, little one, drops gently on the water, floating away, floating away, knowing it’s a dream.

But what a dream. And floating, knowing that the quiet happiness you feel is not that of a boat finally meeting with the stream, but that of a tiny piece of paper, being folded, and folded continuously, and folded until you felt that you have gone inside yourself. And that is all.