No More

I write no more (nothing worthy lately, at least), and yet I've never felt such an urge to put my pen down on paper and scribble my life away. It's as if I live for the paper. The paper does not simply live because I live and I choose to give it life. The paper and I are one and the same when I write. It's most dangerous when I become my pen, but it seems that the starched, simple comfort of new paper is nothing but a world, a colony of my thoughts. When I hand a handwritten item to someone, something that I needed to think about and discuss, I'm trusting them with a piece of me. Perhaps that's why I'm so hesitant to share, nowadays. Perhaps that's why I hate to be the one to have the first word, for fear that the last echoes will be completely out of my control and corrupted further.

I do give my mind away, though. All too often, it seems. Perhaps such a treasure, that vicious sensitivity of mine, has been abused, or otherwise neglected. Either way, this is a stream of consciousness in the sense that I see it. I do not speak clearly, after all. Speech runs into too many things along the way of reaching the concept of sound. It seems that the true words I create seem to run through the very highways of my blood, raging and storming their way...home. Home, where they will finally be understood. I am the paper, after all. My life is based on those words, for better or for worse. I've become something that I want, even if it's not the best that I want.

Perhaps it is the new pack of five, beautiful, unused pens that speaks to me right now, and not I myself doing the writing. It has been my audience for quite a while, now. It sits in front of my flat computer screen, watching with its jealous sparkle as I type away and disregard its regal presence. They're five missiles, almost, deemed to have the simple, modest honor of a long peace mission, for which they sacrifice everything and take upon my sadness, my trials, my joys. In turn, when they have reached the pinnacle and get ready to feel the drop, they get a chance to be me, whichever me I had contributed to that particular pen in my usage.

I literally looked into the emptying ink tube of my pen and saw my misery there, yesterday. I saw the old dreams trying to escape through the narrow hole, as if they would be a benefit for the world to hear. In sooth, in sooth. The world, or at least the starched, pinstripe dealings of the paper I adore, will hear the scrawling trials and they will ring loud and clear. Someday, if not now. Someday, when they have grown tired and reclining from the endless stream of passive revolution. Someday, if they do not die out or let me reload in their wicked persuasion to fire at the dark spots within my heart. Otherwise, I feel safe seeing them there. It's like I literally carry them with me and my heart is heavy unless they decide to ride and spend elsewhere.