Autobiography of a Pen!

AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A PEN



I stood in the darkest corner of her enormous room, alone, with no one to talk to or even write to. And there she was with her new friend, unaware of my dejected feelings and hopeless state. But this is not me...This was never me! Nor was this the life I had imagined! Let me take you a few months back…

I was a pen, red and shiny but had always written in royal blue. I was the gift from her dad on her fifteenth birthday. She used to be fond of me and used to take me everywhere, through people, places and events … I had travelled so much, through pages and pages of the feelings that lay inside her, through her writing. She used to call me her “Lucky Pen”.

But one day, I remember her writing … writing harsh on the roughest paper I had experienced. She was crying and I could feel her tears on me. It was sad to know that she had lost her dad because I knew she loved him the most. But then, the most horrible thing happened when she accidentally put me down and dented my nib. That hurt! “Oh No!” she wept and cried even more. I wanted to console her, write “I’m OK! Really!” on the sheet of paper she had in front of her. But Alas I couldn’t because even though they call us mightier than the sword, neither can we stand on our own nor can we express what we feel. We can articulate what our owners feel or what they want but not about our own selves. So that was the last of her I had known! That was the last of Us!

I enjoyed running over the soft and smooth pages of her diary, telling about all what she felt … made me cry sometimes, reading what she wrote. And that’s why I bled, and she went berserk at that because bleed is what good pens aren’t supposed to do, only if she understood why I bled!

I loved being with her. “Lucky Pen” she used to call me and I was proud of that status.

I am on the wait now for her to pick me up and give me some exercise. I miss reading into her mind. I miss being the first person to know what she felt. I miss her. She never even comes to me these days. I see her fingers flying over the black and white keys with her eyes fixed on the white flickering screen. I see they are her friends now and I am neglected. Although they print well what she says and thinks but they will never smell her hand nor will ever see her beautiful handwriting. They will never bleed for her nor will they think or cry for her …

I stay in her pen stand, waiting to be taken in her fingers again, drink in ink once more and spill it all out for her … but I guess I will have to stay like this and wait in vain for the rest of my life!

Pen!