Stack of Papers

I'm inches away from being shredded. My life is about to be ripped apart. My pieces will be forever washed away in a bin. I try to think of a way to get out of here. I don't know how I can get out of here. Maybe a breeze will let me float away. But there is no window open. I start to panic and get frantic. Any minute now I will be gone. Torn away by blades and forgotten. I start to believe that death will be a good thing for me. It will be like an adventure. I can venture into the unknown haven. I could maybe have some of myself still alive. I begin to feel hope, hope that I can stay alive through all of this. That I won't be forgotten. I feel a hand on me and then it goes away. Why didn't they shred me already? My hope turns to joy I won't be shredded! They will forget all about me. But wait isn't that what I'm afraid of, being forgotten. This is starting to make no sense to me. My thoughts race back and forth. From hope to sadness, hope that I won't be torn and ripped apart and that I won't be forgotten. Sadness for the exact opposite. I pray for some reason that if this is what has to happen to me that I will never be forgotten. I feel a breeze from an open window and I feel myself getting picked up. Then I hear the noise of the shredder being turned on. I feel myself being torn into pieces. Then I feel nothing.