Pen

I am a writer. I know this because my pen bleeds ink. It gushes out in fits and starts upon the page like a severed artery. My pen - my friend - is hemorrhaging as I speak. The poor thing, no mind of its own, it writes well, too well for its own good. It gives so much to me, and I’ll repay its sacrifice with a flip and a toss into the trash can. Then I’ll reach for its neighbor, and use it up too. How callous of me. Do I not care a friend is passing?

I am near tears thinking of my pen's fate. I’m glad I wasn’t born a pen; life is too short and they spend it all hanging about waiting for others to do great things with them. Pity the many pens left disappointed that chance and circumstance gave them to accountants, or school kids, chewed on, clogged up and tossed away not even half used in their brief season of usefulness. It is a sad life that depends this much on others. Do pens cry tears?

My poor pen is nearly out of ink. So loyal it doesn't even know it is writing its own obituary. I bought this pen two years ago, back when I could see ink all along the clear shaft. Now there is less than an inch left. It is really a good pen. The fact that it is nearly used up is more than proof of that. It has been here and done its job, now into oblivion it blindly scribes. About half an inch left. I'll be sorry to see it go. Then I'll have to find a new favorite, probably its sister or brother. I want to use the last of the ink for something meaningful, to save it, but it could dry up and become useless waiting for something profound.

Do pens have families? Mamma pens wean baby pens from their ink teats. Pappa pens slaving away in bank books. Little children pens going off to school learning to make letters and numbers and messes in shirt pockets. No, pens don’t have families. They don’t live long enough. What would a married pen couple talk about really? "She holds me so tight it makes me think of you." or "Her hands are always so sweaty." I don't know. Do I really want to know?

Look at the ink flow out! Each time I look there's less and less, soon none, yet I can't stop! Part of me wonders just what it will be like when the ink is gone. It’ll be like the death of a friend. Should I save the last bit of ink - give it a long, lingering, painful death? No, I'll use it up and let it be a pen to the fullest. Let it leave its mark to the end. Its mark? My mark? Our mark? I have so much more to say with it, it can't be done. How many words have we shared? How can it just stop wri...