November 10th, 2010

I am a black ball-point pen.

 I am a black ball-point pen. I’m really nothing special. I came in a pack of ten, on sale for $4.99. One of those back-to-school sales. I may not be a neon green gel pen, or write in glitter, or glow in the dark, but I’ll be the most reliable pen you’ve ever owned.
You may think my existence is a boring one, but I can assure you that it’s anything but that. Okay, I mean yeah. I can’t really do much on my own, aside from just sort of sitting there. Maybe roll a little with a big enough gust of wind, or if someone leaves a fan on. But all it takes is one person: a curious child, a rebellious teenager, a single working mother; and I’m seeing the world. When you have no say in where you go, what you write, who you belong to; you really get around. Sure I spend my fair share of time in the bottoms of messy purses, being chewed on during a particularly dull lecture, or tapped repeatedly against a mahogany desk, but it’s all worth it. At least I wasn’t left in a dusty cupboard until my ink dried up. In all my time here, I’ve written love letters, grocery lists, diary entries; I know facts and secrets about people you wouldn’t believe.
So here begins the story of my journey. I’m not going to say I loved any of my owners more than the next one, because what I’ve learned in my lifetime is that everyone plays a part. Everyone, even the bit characters, make up the cohesive story of your existence. You may not think you have anything in common with the man who collects your trash or the professor who bores you out of your mind on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but everyone is connected. Everyone. And sometimes it takes something as simple as a ball-point pen to realize that