Manuscript

I know you can't hear me but I still want to talk today, after staying mom in a rusted box for about a hundred years, I'm smelling fresh air today. After I was carefully crafted but shabbily written on scraps of paper, I never imagined I would live so long. Long after my creator died. I thought he was a rich man, my father, how else could one conjure up such beautiful things so easily. But it didn't take too long for me to understand that the societal standards are strange and my father was a pauper, who walked around the world in tattered footwear. Sometimes on the back of a laundry receipt, sometimes on the sides of a postcard, he scattered parts of me everywhere. If not fate what would one call this, that I am alive today. I had almost accepted defeat that I was to die in the dark corners of the iron box and was breathing my last when a young girl brought me out into the sun. At first I couldn't see anything, it was way too bright. But the girl was very excited to see my old self. She looked somewhat like my creator, she was his grand daughter. I wish I could understand what is written on this, she lamented looking at me. Times had changed now, the world had become a stranger place, people had stopped speaking their native languages. Now I'm truly dead, I thought until the girl came back after a while. She had found somebody who could make use of me, somewhere thousands of miles away and she was determined to send me there. I couldn't contain my joy, I broke down into tears, who would have thought that hundred years later someone would breathe in life into me. Here I am in an airplane, something my father had never seen, sitting next to the most expensive things traveling several kilometers. While I now sit among the valuable things I still can't understand why my father was called a pauper. But now I'm sure I will live on for a few more years before I go back into another iron box or perhaps get another lifeline. For now I'm alive and I'm sure my father must be smiling, somewhere.