Written during the Festival

NEW PEN


She had just bought a new pen. A BIC Atlantis Air. She was quite picky about what pen she used. This one was ergonomically designed, aesthetically pleasing, ballpoint and wasn't that horrible smudgy ink that colours your page and skin as you write. In fact it even had a suspension function where, when you pressed down to write, it had a small amount of give. It reminded her of the front forks on the 450. Apparently the pen was made in Japan. She bought it so she could write. A simple inexpensive purchase for a simple inexpensive hobby.


No.


The pen made marks on the page. Lovely. Four dollars sixty well spent. It made invisible marks too...she didn't know pens could do this. She didn't know this pen could make her cry. Why? That damn pen forced her to listen, contemplate, evaluate, criticize and judge. That damn pen forced her to question. They were deep questions, they were complex questions...questions that did not have answers. Perhaps they had answers. How she feared the answers. That god damn fucking pen was a mirror...well she didn't know she purchased a multifunction tool.


She wondered how on earth something so small as a pen could hold such an intricate, layered reflection. She didn't know that pens could transport people. Not like a car does. Not like a truck does. Not even like a walk does. More like if you jumped off a cliff that had no base. She hadn't planned on falling today. This damn pen pushed her. She though back to the packaging, it never advertised these qualities. She bought it for the suspension really. Perhaps she could destroy the pen. Would it destroy the pain?