Little Ballpoint Pen


To any given person the black or blue ballpoint pen, varying in color with my mercurial temperament, hidden within my backpack might seem insignificant, amateur even, but not through my eyes. Sometimes I wish there was a thrilling introduction, an interesting background story as to why the most important thing I carry is a random ballpoint pen in my backpack or purse. But I have always loved simplicity, and simplicity is this story; there are times when even the most complex anecdotes and accounts of sentimental values can come from the simplest of devices. I carry a pen for the sake of writing, the sole purpose of being able to create a written world; a place where no matter what I belong, I yearn for truth, I tremble with fear, or exude love from my mangled heart, where I ache from the chest, or smile from the eyes. It’s here that my story comes out to expose it’s self to the world around me, and I find it so easy to get lost in this written world of words.


Ever since my adolescent years, I found peace with holding a pen and watching as the page would fill with a plethora of words, a kind of childhood-blanket security. Now, not much has changed from my diary entries of playing on the cul-de-sac with my neighborhood friends, and whether or not I was happy with my younger sisters. Possibly the only change is that of maturity, by a whirlwind of thoughts lost, yet strung together with my mind as the only attachment because I now have the power to create a new form of a bittersweet fantasy than the sometimes bland and emotionless world I come from – a place far from the cul-de-sac. Nonetheless, I still love to write, and still get those chills up and down my spine when I write something of importance.


If my pen was a person, I would never be able to thank her enough. The art of writing seriously has taught me so much, as a person, as a writer, and as a lover in the sense that I know happiness to the fullest, and know love personally. Writing has given me an outlet to express my inner thoughts in the palm of my hand, while allowing a waterfall of a façade to shield my sometimes broken frame of mind. In this façade, I am given a place to see the ghosts of my past; I am given the adhesive to mend a broken heart, for writing is my special rehabilitation. And it comes from here, a true happiness and heart full of love for my writing and for my little ballpoint pen.


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