My fibers ache

Hi Beta,

It is me, 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. Honestly, it’s bad enough to make my fibers ache! 

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 developing 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 offense, 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 neighbor, 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. Each page told a tale, and I was the one who made sure every word echoed on, creating a second copy for safekeeping—or maybe just for the thrill of seeing your words multiplied like magic.  I was there for every wobbly drawing, every typo you crossed out with a flourish, and every “The End” you typed with a triumphant exhale. Even when the ink smudged, I didn’t mind; I lived to preserve your enthusiasm, flaws and all.

But then, the betrayal began. Slowly, you drifted away. One day, it was tracing paper on a window. “It’s cleaner,” you said. Then, asking your mom to use a copying machine “It’s faster”, you said.

And finally, digital tablets swooped in with their fancy layers and undo buttons. Can you imagine??? Undo buttons!  And meanwhile, 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 is 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 t 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! One stroke of the pen, and voilà—two identical copies of whatever masterpiece Dad deemed worthy of my talents. But it wasn’t just invoices; no, no, no! It was official business. “Junior, sign here,” he’d say, sliding the pen toward you with all the solemnity of a CEO closing a merger. And bless the little one’s heart—they signed every single time, tiny hand gripping that pen like they were sealing a deal with Fortune 500.

And the binder! Oh, that sacred binder. It was like the Holy Grail of pretend paper trails. Dad would place the carbon-copied invoice inside with reverence, declaring it “filed for future reference.” Future reference? What future? We all knew those invoices were as useful 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 analog, baby—immune to the digital apocalypse. “Carbon paper doesn’t crash,” I would shout this out 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?! What am I, a Stormtrooper? I was obsolete faster than a dial-up connection during an incoming phone call.

So yeah, laugh at the relic, but don’t forget who made the magic happen. I’m carbon paper, and I duplicated memories—not just invoices.

So today, Beta, I am writing this letter and coming to a realization: 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. But the world has moved on, and, honestly, it’s about time I moved on, too.

Look at these new kids on the block—smartphones, tablets, cloud storage. Sure, they do not fancy the tactile charm of a good carbon copy, but they have something I never had: efficiency. And let’s be honest, no one misses smudged fingers or that inky mess I left behind, right?

So, to all the printers, PDFs, and e-signature platforms out there: it’s your time to shine. Go ahead and make the world faster, cleaner, and more connected. 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!