I sit here with my pen, once again at my side. All of those whom I’ve considered a friend have left me by my lonesome. The pen is all that I have left. And without fail, every single time I write, it jots down the characters I desire with nary a protest or question. Should the mood strike me, I can, with this pen, smite those who have wronged me or wish to do me wrong; if my thoughts descend into the darkest, deepest reaches of the abyss, the pen will not cower or fight the will of my motions. It is ever abiding—its ink records my thoughts and my fantasies, my fictions and experiences, as it should do. For that, which is to serve the literary artist, is its very purpose. Unfailingly loyal to me: my pen will never lie to me or abandon me. I feel safety and comfort in it knowing these aspects of the object.
Yet still I find myself missing the nuances of human interaction. An object of no whim or pulse of its own cannot replace the intricacies of the soul. Yes, I’ve come to know the greatest pains and sadness having had contact with my fellow man, yet, my works on the page—my craft of literature has derived all of its inspiration from those very interactions and experiences. And sometimes it is necessary to have the ego of another mind challenge your own. So here I am, alone with my pen, and my craft is, as I have come to realize, doomed to dry out. My inspiration is limited now. No companionship or strife means I may not know what to put to paper any longer. Such is perhaps the only net positive of coping with the many angles of life’s experiences.
The sharpness of the pen shall close this book for now. I think I will go for the neck; deep and precise, and most importantly, the pain will be as quick & brief as the swiftness of a fox. Alone with my craft, this will be the very last gift my pen will give to me.
