autobiography of a pen..
i am a pen. Red and shiny i am, but i have always written in blue. Royally. she used to fondle me, kiss me, take me on her sojourns, through people, places and events...i have traveled so much...through pages and pages of her writing...her lucky pen she used to call me...
i remember her crying when she put me down accidentally one day, and dented my nib... (I still have a dented nib. and she reckons i write better that way...) and I so wanted to console her, write 'am OK. Really!' on the white sheet of paper she had before her. But alas i couldn't. Coz even though they call us mightier than the sword, we don't have a stand on our own. We can’t stand up. Nor can we express what we feel. we can write what our owners feel, what they want us to...nothing else...
i enjoyed running over pages, telling about all that she felt. ..Made me cry sometimes, reading what she wrote. That’s when i bled...and she went berserk at that coz bleed is what good pens are not supposed to do...if only she understood why i bled
i loved being with her. Lucky pen she used to call me...and proud i was of that status...
i am on the wait now...for her to pick me up...and give me some exercise. I miss reading into her mind. i miss being the first person to know what she felt. I miss her. She never comes to me these days. I see her fingers flying over black and white keys, her eyes fixed on a flickering white screen...they are her friends now. And i am neglected. they print what she says...but they will never smell her hand, nor see her beautiful writing...they will never bleed for her...nor will they think for her...
i stay in her pen ink once more and spill it all out for her...but i guess i wait in vain...
Regards
pen!
i am a pen. Red and shiny i am, but i have always written in blue. Royally. she used to fondle me, kiss me, take me on her sojourns, through people, places and events...i have traveled so much...through pages and pages of her writing...her lucky pen she used to call me...
i remember her crying when she put me down accidentally one day, and dented my nib... (I still have a dented nib. and she reckons i write better that way...) and I so wanted to console her, write 'am OK. Really!' on the white sheet of paper she had before her. But alas i couldn't. Coz even though they call us mightier than the sword, we don't have a stand on our own. We can’t stand up. Nor can we express what we feel. we can write what our owners feel, what they want us to...nothing else...
i enjoyed running over pages, telling about all that she felt. ..Made me cry sometimes, reading what she wrote. That’s when i bled...and she went berserk at that coz bleed is what good pens are not supposed to do...if only she understood why i bled
i loved being with her. Lucky pen she used to call me...and proud i was of that status...
i am on the wait now...for her to pick me up...and give me some exercise. I miss reading into her mind. i miss being the first person to know what she felt. I miss her. She never comes to me these days. I see her fingers flying over black and white keys, her eyes fixed on a flickering white screen...they are her friends now. And i am neglected. they print what she says...but they will never smell her hand, nor see her beautiful writing...they will never bleed for her...nor will they think for her...
i stay in her pen ink once more and spill it all out for her...but i guess i wait in vain...
Regards
pen!
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