My fibres are hurt

Hello Beta,

I'm your old friend. I've been lingering at your parents' house, stuck between old receipts and random paperclips, in some dusty boxes where all the childhood forgotten treasures used to amaze you. I am marinating in nostalgia, replaying the good times like a scratched CD from the '90s. My fibers are extremely hurt!

Do you recall those early days when you'd press me into service, sandwiching me between blank sheets, transferring your pencil strokes like a magician conjuring lines from thin air? I wasn't just copying your work—I was part of your journey. Your entertaining flowers, your ambitious attempts at faces, and your first "perfect" cat that still looked suspiciously like a potato. I kept those moments alive, a quiet witness to the development of your fine motor skills. You smudged me relentlessly, crumpled me when I was "too messy," and once you even wiped your hands on me like I was some lowly napkin. A napkin, of all things!

I remember you spent hours tracing that intricate ballerina, layer by layer, until your hands were cramped, and I felt like I'd been through The Nutcracker play but serving as the floor of wild dancers. Or when you tried to draw a perfect cat and ended up with something resembling a squashed raccoon. (No offence, but it was rough.) We laughed through it all—you in your triumphs and I in my quiet, inky way. I can still hear the clack-clack-ding of that typewriter you borrowed from the neighbour, eager to embrace the role of a writer and share your stories in a manner that commanded attention and respect from your audience.

Oh my, the way you'd pound those keys with such determination. The pages you filled in with your world were tales that I made sure to keep the words echoing on. I created a second copy, just in case, but I knew how much you enjoyed having your thoughts multiplying like magic.

Every wobbly drawing, every typo crossed out nervously, was there for me to be saved, the triumphant "THE END" stamped after your deeply intimate stories. Despite the moments when you smudged the ink, I was willing to preserve your excitement, your flaws, and all of you.

And then…it all started. Little by little, you slipped away. One day, tracing paper was taped to the window. "It's cleaner," you said, not meeting my eyes. Not long after, you asked your mom to use the copier instead. "It's faster," you told her.

And just like that, we stopped drawing together.

And then digital tablets appeared, sleek with their layers and magical undo buttons. Can you even imagine?"

In the meantime, I was there, your dependable friend, smudge-prone, but always ready to serve. However, you had to get fancy. "PDF this," "Make twenty copies, please". Sure, it's efficient, but can your PDFs give you the satisfaction of peeling off a crisp duplicate and seeing your handwriting mirrored perfectly? I think NOT!

And don't even get me started on your freaking touchscreen nonsense! Can you feel the joy of pressing down hard enough to imprint a second sheet? Hell no! All you get are finger smudges and autocorrect fails. It is so so so pathetic.

You'll miss me, mark my words, baby! Someday, your tech will crash, your batteries will die, and you'll sit there, staring at a blank screen, wishing for something as simple and reliable as me. Ugh, listen….I am sorry for this scene… Please, do not get me wrong—I'm not bitter anymore. I am not mad at you (Okay, maybe a little, but I'm working on it.) You've moved on, and so have I. I know I should…

The world has changed, and my once-crucial role has been supplanted by sleek, pixel-perfect technology. But you know what? That's okay. I will keep on recalling the evenings when your dad came home with his big suitcase full of paper adventures, this flair for bureaucracy. Ohhh, those were the most validating days! Man, the power I wielded!

There were critical missions that required flawless copies, all kinds of buga buga stuff Dad shoved in front of you to sign as if you were the CEO of the most fantastic company ever, closing the biggest deal on Earth! It was a hell of excitement, not some irksome scribbling on carbon paper in your sunlit room.

I still remember your inexperienced, tiny fingers clutching the pen and carefully trying to sign the document as if you were holding Excalibur in the most critical moment! We felt so important, didn't we? Admit it, Beta.

Immediately after it came the binder. All these mighty sheets tucked in with this value- "FOR FUTURE REFERENCE", Dad would say. As if we were supposed to go to court one day…Future reference, you say? Paper ghosts were flooding this place!

We all knew those invoices were as helpful as a Blockbuster membership card in 1999.

Speaking of 1999, remember Y2K? Now that was my time to shine! People were panicking about computers failing, but not me. I was analogue, baby—immune to the digital revelation.

"Carbon paper doesn't crash," I would shout this out with a proud voice if I had a mouth.

But alas, the good times didn't last. One day, Dad showed up with a printer. I watched as they tossed around words like "inkjet" and "laser." Laser?! I'm not a fan of "Star Wars" to shoot with lasers! Then I learnt this had nothing to do with it! And yet, laugh at the relic, but don't forget who made the magic happen. I'm carbon paper, and I duplicated memories—not just invoices, and I made it faster!

So, today, my lovely one, I am writing this letter and coming to a realisation: it's time for me to let go of the past and step aside. I've done my part. I have been the silent partner in countless home offices, the ghostwriter of invoices, and the architect of childhood make-believe. I have seen signatures flourish, documents multiply, and binders overflow.

On the contrary, my dear Beta, the world has moved on. And to be fair, it's about time I moved on, too.

Look at these new kids on the block…They fiddle with smartphones, walk around with tablets; all their memories are stored in the cloud. Let's be real, they do not fancy the tactile charm of a good carbon copy, but they have something I never had: efficiency. And I know you didn't like it when your fingers were all smudged with an inky mess that Mom and Dad were scolding you about.

So, to all the printers, PDFs, and e-signature platforms out there: it is your time to shine. Go ahead and make the world swifter, non-stained, and more connected place. Just promise me one thing—don't forget the joy of a job well done.

As for me, I'll be here, quietly fading into history, and still lingering around ( I am not extinct..yet!) knowing I left my mark—literally. Maybe one day, some curious soul will stumble upon me in a drawer, wonder what I was for, and smile. That's all I could ask for.

Farewell, Beta. Do not forget me, even when you show a kid how to draw a princess... with a light table ;)

Yours nostalgically, in ink and memories

Carbon Paper

P.S. This letter has at least three copies floating around. You never know where they might turn up!