The Pen
Tired of being useless, weary of lying still waiting for her hand to touch me. Loads of paper beside me, each clean like her heart need me to scratch them. Am I not abound with ink? Yes, I am. So, why is she deferring writing? I have a lot to give, a lot to say, just long for fingers, for her tiny bony fingers to keep me in between, to repose on her graceful skin and revel.
The other day, she wrote Hi by using me and some days later Bye was the word that came out of my mouth and then came her long absence. I have been going through a long silence since then. No change, I have been lying there with the word Bye beneath me, not able to call her, not able to think on my own just have to wait.
I wish I could think; then I would stand up, protest against the blank sheet and express the silence, the agony and how dust has covered me and most importantly, how much I miss the girl. I wish I could think; then I would ask her to hold me in her hands and give me some warmth. But, but if I could think , why would I need Her thought? I would write all on my own. I wouldn't need an author for I would be the author, write the greates stories about a pen and a pencil who fell in a love which lasted short when a naughty boy with dirty hands kept sharpening the pencil, abusing it, and the hero of our story, the Pen, tormented kept losing the water of his blood seeing the pencil getting shorter and shorter, approaching to being Nothing. Oh yes, and this is how their love skidded to a halt; Both, beside each other ended up in a bin over some sqeezed sheets of paper which were testimony to the love they had made on them, to the memory they had written on them.
"I wish I could think,
"But oh, you can't imagine how I miss her touch,
"But then with thought I could be independent,
"I wish...
"But...
...
The Hero of our story lay there, no girl turned up, days went on, dust buried him, yet again there was no change until one day a man of old age with rough hands covered with partched skin showed up, picked our hero up and tried to write something but couldn't, except for a very uneven seperate " !_ " for the Pen was almost dry. And no need to say that, then he dumped our hero in an empty bin under the desk.
The other day, she wrote Hi by using me and some days later Bye was the word that came out of my mouth and then came her long absence. I have been going through a long silence since then. No change, I have been lying there with the word Bye beneath me, not able to call her, not able to think on my own just have to wait.
I wish I could think; then I would stand up, protest against the blank sheet and express the silence, the agony and how dust has covered me and most importantly, how much I miss the girl. I wish I could think; then I would ask her to hold me in her hands and give me some warmth. But, but if I could think , why would I need Her thought? I would write all on my own. I wouldn't need an author for I would be the author, write the greates stories about a pen and a pencil who fell in a love which lasted short when a naughty boy with dirty hands kept sharpening the pencil, abusing it, and the hero of our story, the Pen, tormented kept losing the water of his blood seeing the pencil getting shorter and shorter, approaching to being Nothing. Oh yes, and this is how their love skidded to a halt; Both, beside each other ended up in a bin over some sqeezed sheets of paper which were testimony to the love they had made on them, to the memory they had written on them.
"I wish I could think,
"But oh, you can't imagine how I miss her touch,
"But then with thought I could be independent,
"I wish...
"But...
...
The Hero of our story lay there, no girl turned up, days went on, dust buried him, yet again there was no change until one day a man of old age with rough hands covered with partched skin showed up, picked our hero up and tried to write something but couldn't, except for a very uneven seperate " !_ " for the Pen was almost dry. And no need to say that, then he dumped our hero in an empty bin under the desk.
posted by Mahdi at 12:31 AM
8 Comments:
quite incredible....your authorshiop deserves approval...the romance involved between the pen n' the pencil was breathtakin....but i doubt..if anyone can ever dump those papers..where the entire romance revolved around...for those sketches drawn on those papers will linger forever....
a warm welcome to u Stranger ;)
thnx for reading
well sometimes those papers and their stories r forgotten in the mist of time or even sometimes the author themselves throw them away,burn them,bc of various reasons;lack of understaning,no reader or even personal reasons.
all in all thnx alot for reading.
wow thtz a very different post ive neva read nethin like it before
great
thanx for droppin by my blog.
do visit often
:)
but i feel that's why writers always use papers to write on...for they refuse to corrode...even in those battlin times....n' they always manage to capture the attention of one reader....as long as those papers remain...i've a strong reason to believe that some part of that romance will always be there!!!!
p.s. keep the faith!!
>ice princess:
thnx for dropping in,
I am really happy u like it.
>stranger:
well,I really do respect the paper mentioned,but that paper(symbol of whatever u might consider)is diminishing.there have been many words never read,even by one.Or even if supposedly one read them, it wouldn't be utopia of,the perfect world of the word which can be abound with ppl who do read gently.
I just get mad when remind myself of a Great writer like GOGOL who burnt his masterpiece,the one which no one ever had read it and didn't even let posthumous readers in the future read them.sth strong must have lied behind what he did, and that can be ignorance,the question of why writing,or even why reading what one writes,...
at any rates,writing is great when some readers like u read them,
sorry to give u headache ;)
hey ms, this was simply superb.. i like this way of seeing things from a different angle..
btw, i got something for u in my blog.. i hope u'll collect it.. :-))
Incredible! This is just the kind of thing tht makes me wonder wht wud happen if non living objects had thoughts and feelings...
@mirage
well,they do speak,but we cant hear.
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