Page'spad.com

Turning experiences into impactful stories.

Where Stories Come to Life

Let’s Turn Moments into Masterpieces – One Page at a Time.

Every event has a story, and every story deserves to be told with depth, emotion, and authenticity. At Pagespad.com, we go beyond pictures and videos to capture the true essence of your special moments through the power of words. Whether it’s a wedding, corporate function, product launch, or milestone celebration, we craft immersive narratives that let you relive the experience long after the event has ended. Think of it as hiring your own personal journalist—someone who sees the details, feels the atmosphere, and brings your event to life in a way that resonates with both heart and history.

MIRROR OF LIKES

As a child we watched the evil queen beg her mirror to show her the fairest of them all, and yet, the mirror did not show her herself, in which we all expect to see. The mirror shunned her away and brought upon an idea of youth and fair skin. Not skin sagging with aging years that hold on with the grasp of trying to let go. With burn marks from the sun that appear in dots around the chest. No, it was not the reality that was seen through her mirror. Her Snow White reflection was what was deemed attractive by society. So as she witnessed the change in beauty, she dabbed her face with a light powder and gelled her eyelashes back. Moving back and forth from one mirror to the next, the Evil Queen depicted if her reflection matched the one of the snowy girl with millions of likes. When asking again, who is the fairest of them all, the mirror did not change, for all the faces she could see were the same. Smudges of humanity under a mask of powder and liquid, were all recognized as the same: evil. So was the evil Queen evil? Or just a girl trying to fit in, under the weight of society and the expectation of what they should be? A masquerade of evil supplies that manipulate the masses of men whom shun from questions on these matters, for then they might recognize themselves as the cheerleaders for “redesigning campaigns”. Or maybe not, for woman may just enjoy this, but some don’t have a choice.

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MALODOUR IN LIFE

All my life I have weaved through people. Good and bad, strangers and friends, and some that were so much worse. An odious waste of spirit that whisks through the air and penetrates your life in a way that won’t end. Left over debris of filth that creates a stench that doesn’t leave you, even once you have closed the windows and shut the blinds. You begin to fear the smell, the reminder of what’s near. For me, my school reeked. Filled with flowers that attracted those of lovers, those whom smell them and lurch away from the poison they invent once the particles penetrate your nose. From the outside it was a beautiful garden, anyone would want to frolic in. I wanted to. I did from time to time, but soon I was beaten down by the ostensible plants. Realizing their true nature. People I knew, friends I made, and mistakes that gathered. Lies, manipulation and the dread of ravaging self. For the worst was that for a while I didn’t notice the blemish I had undergone, the travesty of my existence in such a place. Maybe I had anosmia, the inability to smell. Maybe a flower such as myself was not meant to be there, however, like other beings, I adapted. I grew thorns and weary of my surroundings. I intended to prick all those who dared pick me. A rose of sorts or a cactus to many. An out of place flower that had no roots, just a defiance to live. I overcame grade by grade the plants and wastage I have met, some only passing through like a whisper of wind, and some who found a home in the grass. I relish the fact of my leave, however fearing what lies ahead of the garden. Less plants, but more smell. Could it all be so painful? Will I ever find my roots and a place I fit, shedding my thorns and allow a stranger to inhale my scent… Out of the walls of my school, I fear and excite, but may only recall the odor, for the beauty was lost in the triggering deception of those who bloomed. (23 July 2024)

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A WORLD I CAN HOLD

People don’t realize that books aren’t just dead trees one can hold in their hands, but an entire universe that can corrupt your soul. Stitches of life, can make up your own, and my life has always seemed to be made up of worlds that are not mine. I have attended a Gatsby thrown party, I have been locked in an asylum as Juliette Farras, I have witnessed Count Dracula scurry up walls, I have fought in the Hunger Games, I have found my soul, lost it, and experienced more life in one sitting than most happen to experience in a lifetime.
As a child I despised the idea of reading, for my name being “Page” I always found it too ironic to even humor the idea of such. Then I found a book, and everything changed. I simply opened a door to which there is no escape. I began to walk through pages of ink, getting lost in a maze of words. Reaching dead ends at the end of a book, causing me to have to start a new one in search of a new path. A new life. However, as I got deeper and deeper into this maze I soon realized that I didn’t want out. No, instead I wanted to set up a camp in each one and create my own life in them. Immerse myself in each world and truly become a part of it. Find myself in characters, their livelihood, their world. Soon I became a resident of the world of books and reality faded away. A distant memory of horror and depression. My new world always has happy endings and if not, you can bet that there would be another book waiting. Another story, another life.
Maybe I have trapped myself in an unrealistic reality of White Whales, and enchanted forests but isn’t that better than what I left. I left corruption and unadulterated massacre. In my perspective I can’t understand why I would ever want to be found. I don’t understand how that irony of my childhood could keep me away from this. This is where I belong. And if my name doesn’t represent that then I don’t know what does. My new life has always been written in the stars, in my story. My name has always been a direction to that door, to what my life would become. A story wrapped up in others. “Pages of Page”. And in these pages of life, of ink and words sewn into the remains of a tree… I am home. (school speech)

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Please contact me

Looking forward to hearing from you.

Page Palmer

“The universe is made of stories, not of atoms” ~Muriel Rukeyser

pagecpalmer@gmail.com

Page Palmer

@pagecpalmer

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