I decided to experiment today and try writing something completely different than anything I’ve written before. I ended up with this short poetic prose story about pencils. I hope you guys like it.
The pencil is golden yellow, its point as dull and black as the night. It scratches across the paper like how one might itch a bug bite. Its eraser is tired and worn, stained an ugly gray like an overcast sky when it’s about to rain. It feels hard and smooth but fits comfortably in my hand like a cold pair of gloves in the winter.
As I write, the lead slowly shrinks leaving a metallic silver behind. Dented from its use, the pencil is sharpened; a crisp clear sound as it becomes pointy and sharp again. Ready to create new worlds and brilliant ideas, it’s new tip shines. Mistakes made, it can always erase. Reached the end of the page but it can still be revived. Mightier than the pen or sword, the immortal pencil writes to bring an idea to life.
Becoming my best friend, it rests tucked behind my ear. Practical and always ready for another writing spree. Pencil and human thoughts have become one. Allowing letters to flow smoothly, an outlet for feelings. Eventually the words will become smudged, tucked away in the notebook and forgotten but the pencil will still rewrite.
Together we do everything. Solve puzzling problems, write with reckless creativity, ponder word choice and possibilities. Just the pencil and me. Free to express, it’s there when I need to decompress. Thousands of words this pencil has written. From beautiful and kind to full of anger, confusion, and confidence.
But nothing was made to last forever.
Eventually, its eraser has been all used. Nothing but an irreplaceable blackened stub. Its point has become broken and dull so many times it is beyond repair. Too small to sharpen anymore more, friendship is broken at the core. What once turned words into worlds and pages into palaces is now nothing but a half-an-inch stub. Its life was long but oh how it seemed to fly. Creating the end product. A journal filled with laughs and tears, all my fears and dreams, secrets and lies, from everything that I’d ever needed to write.
It’s funny how a pencil that can do so much
Turns into nothing but a stub.
