A few years ago in a flight of fancy I came up with this; hope you enjoy...
I am a pen. I have many purposes in life and perform many functions. However, my purpose in life is determined by others, my destiny is not my own. My primary function is to write. I am used to sign documents, write out checks, leave love notes and good-byes.
When I sit beside a guest book my purpose it to leave lasting memories for families to read. Notes that are both sorrowful and sympathetic (such as at a funeral) or notes of congratulations and encouragement in life (such as at a wedding.) I am an instrument of communication.
Down through the ages I have had many different looks and styles. I have been a feather, cut at the end and dipped in a bottle of ink. I have been made of wood, reeds and other such items that are conducive to conducting ink to paper. I am ballpoint, fine or medium in width. I am felt-tipped, calligraphy, gel, click, large barreled and small. But whatever I am, I know that I am a pen, an instrument of communication.
When I sit for long periods of time without being used, my ink dries. I become useless until friction or fire melts my ink, causing it to flow freely again, my life’s blood spilling from my artery onto the paper, defining my life as a pen, an instrument of communication.
Please do not perceive that I have feelings, I do not sense loneliness when I am not used or you chose another pen over me. No, I wait silently in a penholder or on a table, beside a journal or guest book. Time does not pass for me, I am not jealous of another’s shiny exterior or rotund barrel that is easier to hold. I do not lust for the life of a pencil, for my entries are permanent. When I write on the pages of life, I am not easily erased, I am bold, confident even when smudged, for I AM A PEN, an instrument of communication.
Computers have taken away some of my function. But computers cannot leave entries in guest books, cannot sign checks at the bank, do not have personal touch of a handwritten card or note. I have lain in the hand of maestros as they write concertos and symphonies. Granted the work was begun by a pencil, but completed by me, a pen an instrument of communication.
I wrote the scriptures in many languages before Guttenberg was born. I brought permanence to the dreams of Leonardo and wrote the musings of Dante and Poe. I scribed the hieroglyphics in the caves of early man and flown into space. I have traveled the seas, charted the stars and down through the ages been used to solidify the fluidity of time and history. Technology was drawn and recorded by me, a pen an instrument of communication. Technology that would seek to replace me cannot for I am a pen an instrument of communication.
If you sense any jealousy, it is not in me for all of my feelings come from the one that charts my destiny, defines my purpose, gives me life. For I wait silently in a penholder or on a table beside a journal, for I am a pen, simply a pen an instrument of communication.
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