Every now and then, I still find myself quietly astonished at the things some people see behind my eyes, like an elven firework display hiding in a camera lens. The heartbeats still nag at me, daring me to make the secret movie I never truly believed I had the budget for, and I despair sometimes when yet another draft of the script flutters unceremoniously out through the nearest window.

But I have always known where to turn when the spells ran dry. I've always known which fingers to hold when my hand felt cold.

If I feel frayed and worn, I look to you, the champion of paper aeroplanes, to give me wings again.

Why then, when people look at you, do they insist on seeing only the frayed edges?

I watched your soul get scribbled on by people who couldn't be bothered to learn the language. I watched all your best notes become tangled in the margins like angry weeds. I watched all these atrocities and more - yet still your eyes shone.

How then did our magic words get so lost?

I've hardly started yet, and already I know the terrors of worn, faded paper, eaten away by the scars of old folds.

So when I shine now, I shine for both of us. I doodle fearsome, weed-eating sea monsters across those troublesome margins. I paragraph all the little galaxies we used to visit between our fingertips, back when the Universe was just a touch and a whisper away.

I shine for all the sentences my little word still wants to make - and I shine for the kind of heartbreaking smile you can only write on worn, faded bits of paper, where all the world's most precious scribbles have been collected.

What I will not do is sit crumpled and forgotten in the corner, watching a stream of throwaway doodles rush past...

and wondering why my victory has been stolen by a world that wants us to live the wrong way round.