This pen fights me with every letter it reluctantly looses from its bitter point. As though it is upset with its entire purpose for being, not satisfied with the lot it was cast. My hand growing ever more weary as it forces me to wrangle, struggle and wrestle the life from it. Perhaps this pen knows of its fate. As though by some mystical force has been willed into life and is aware of what time it has left to live, in much the same way that I am reminded of the length of its utility made present by the length of colour, visible through the transparent tube that contains its thick and stagnant blue blood. So that this pen must be my enemy and I his, that he should take battle with my hand while I slowly bleed the life from him that I might give life to my page.
Could it be that this pen of mine has grown so cumbersome and lethargic through lack of use? After all, in this post-paper world that we are creating, where the keystroke or meme is mightier than the sword, a pen might be led to believe that this long and fortunate existence is indeed an inalienable right. In this way, could my pen be ignoring the long history of scrawled and scribbled stretches of paper that preceded this partial emancipation of penmanship? It is in its infancy, this apocalyptic post-pen world, and while black and white may still be struggling for true equality in society - black and white are undeniably united and bonded in equality and artistry when a passage of prose or verse is transcribed.
OH! Then what sweet irony it is then that this tale, first wrought in ink strangled from the repugnant and churlish vassal, should be transferred and in turn transmuted to binary that it might be shared. To never be read aloud or handed around as hand written letters on street corners. But copied from cursive to keystrokes for your appreciation. This pen will have found asylum and will happily lay at rest, still and motionless in the darkness of it's case. Its victory in repelling its purpose is certain for a moment, but while each and every letter of the draft is scrawled along the lines of my page, its agonising passion rages on till completion.
Unlike the average teen, blissfully unaware that each day spent is one closer to death, this pen from first letter to last will rail against my wrist till strain and fatigue cause me to surrender... if only for a moment... to hopefully, at last as if by chance or by the pen simply willing it to happen, that I should pick up a different pen. A less suspecting bedfellow, unknowing and unaware that I will waste its life away in unread words on an ink filled page.
THE PEND
