I'm a pen...

I’m a pen. I’ve been handled by many more people you could even imagine. I’ve been looked at, weighed in palms, disdained, refused, admired and purchased several times.

It’s not easy to survive when everything is typed by a keyboard and nobody cares about ink and handwriting again.

How can you exchange the vibrant feeling of the pen in your hands, the sweet resistance of the paper once it’s been marked with your thoughts, the insightful window that your calligraphy is into your mood, your character, your intentions?

I’ve been used for scribbling on perused fragments of paper, napkins, bare skin, I even carved a table once. That wasn’t pleasant.

I’ve elegantly danced on precious sheets, guided by a loving hand. I’ve been shaken and jolted by nervous fingers, opened and closed until my springs were almost worn and my guts turned upside down.

Thanks to my flawless performance, documents have been signed, obscure deals sealed, secret messages delivered.

If only could I tell you all the things I’ve witnessed…

I was a faithful companion, a perfect partner in crime, as guilty as the hand who lead me, as thorn as the desperate mind who conceived those words, as loving as the man who owned me for ten years and then passed me onto his precious, beloved daughter when he realized all was lost, for him.

Now, how to tell her what really happened? How to explain her that life is cruel, and it’s not her fault? How to tell her that love is not a linear, easy ride, and often it’s sacrifice and loss?

How to teach her she’s not alone?