Once I read a book on philosophy, which suggested that we are born “Tabula Rasa”, a blank sheet of paper. As we begin to experience life, these events are recorded upon that sheet. Perhaps this is true, but it has never struck me as an accurate metaphor. I feel like my soul is more like a sheet of paper, which has been folded and creased and bent back upon itself, whether or not events have also been writing on it. I hope that one day, all the pain I’ve felt will turn me into something beautiful, like a sheet of paper that was tortured into the shape of an origami crane.