An Ode To Pens
“Do you still have my pen?”
“My pen. I lent it to you a few days ago.”
No I don’t.”
“Well where is it?”
“I don’t know. I think I lost it. Nothing spoil - it’s just a pen.”
I am against the treatment of pens and pencils as objects of insignificance.
Do you know what has been done with a pen?
It is mightier than the sword, they say.
I have no idea who ‘they’ are, but they definitely knew what the hell they were talking about.
New words have come to life because of these fragile instruments we take advantage of. Did you know Thomas Hardy made up the word ‘wistlessness’ in The Voice? Just like that, a new word.
In fact — they aren’t even fragile — they are weapons of war.
Weapons of mass destruction.
They are on the frontlines constantly, as I rage against the oppression of tests.
They embody the struggle human beings are entwined in against the world — the hastily scrawled note that reminds you of an obligation — the painstakingly beautiful love letter to the object of your desire; that is yours and yours only to mull over — the biting memo you draft in your journal, never to be seen by your tyrant of a boss.
As surely as ink flows through my pen will the blood of my enemies spill onto the pages that are my battleground.
Because it is not just a pen.
It is my secret triumph. It is my means of recalling history and projecting my future and recording everything in between.
It is an extension of myself.
So do not fucking say “it is just a pen” because you sure as hell don’t know the half of it.