As important as the story of my origin is the story of the one who holds me. Not merely holds me, but guides me through the analytical and creative passes of their mind and brings to life thoughts that otherwise risk being lost in oblivion.
I am not just a writing instrument, but a medium of conveying what lies within you. I am a pencil.
Trapped in a shiny case with my friends, I could barely wait to feel the touch of your fingertips. What an enchanting moment it was, when you chose me! My friends warned me the transformation wasn’t going to be easy and rightly so. Going under the blade was painful but it pales in comparison to the sorrow that engulfs me now.
You choose to ‘type’ what you feel. You make ‘notes’ in that application on your phone. I am no longer the valued instrument of expression. Instead, I have been reduced to an instrument of convenience. Want to remind yourself of something but can’t find your phone? Sure, scribble it all on a paper. If you change your mind someday, I’ll be waiting for you in the quiet corner of the stationery box. Please excuse my hard feelings in this soft copy.