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The Steam Papers: Notes on Elemental Grammar

To My Long-Suffering Confidant Being a Discourse Most Urgent Upon the Discovery That All Literature Springs from the Eternal Argument Between Fire and Rain My Dearest, Most Patient Friend, I write to you in a state of such intellectual agitation that my very pen trembles, and I fear these pages may bear witness to the fevered condition of a mind that has stumbled upon what I can only describe as the fundamental secret of all literary creation . The clock has just struck three, yet sleep remains as distant as reasoned discourse, for I am possessed by a revelation so complete, so all-encompassing, that I dare not close my eyes lest this understanding dissolve like morning mist before I can properly commit it to paper. You will think me quite mad—and perhaps rightfully so—when I confess what has consumed my thoughts these seven sleepless nights: the absolute conviction that every poem ever composed, every novel ever written, every drama ever staged represents nothing more—and ...
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The Still Life of a Paperclip


Photo by Patrick Ladner on Unsplash
More Than a Paperclip

Tucked beside notepads and sealed envelopes, the shape was clear. A crescent of metal, looped in patience. Purpose defined: to hold things together. Neat. Precise. Expected.

But hands — oh, the hands never just needed neatness.

Pulled apart. Straightened. Bent into hooks, lock picks, tiny prying fingers. Used to press reset buttons on ancient gadgets or dig out stubborn dirt from under tired nails. Once turned into makeshift jewelry, a charm swinging from a threadbare string.

And in those moments, something stirred. A thrill, maybe. The pulse of being more. Or... less?

The Strain of Becoming

Because for every use outside of holding paper, there came a strain. A small rebellion of steel. Not loud. But aching.

The thing about purpose — it's silent. Assigned before there was even a question. But desire? Desire arrives late. It whispers. It dares.

Was it wrong to enjoy the stretch? To feel almost proud, being shaped into a key when all others failed? Was it betrayal, or becoming?

After the Bend

Eventually, the bends stayed. That perfect curl never quite returned. Still trying to hold pages, but now off-center. A little looser. Sometimes slipping.

"You're not what you used to be," someone once said, tossing it aside.

Was it a failure, then? Or freedom?

The Quiet Want

All things are born with a function. Few are asked what they want. Fewer still are allowed to answer.

But even now — bent, scarred, slightly rusting — still here. Still waiting to be chosen. Still wondering what it means to be useful… and if that's the same as being enough.

"Because maybe, just maybe, the things we weren’t meant for are the ones that teach us what we truly are."

Copyright © 2025 Sheen Jinee - All Rights Reserved.

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