The Pen
I am an instrument of expression, a legendary weapon mightier than a broadsword, stronger than a sharp steel axe, and more elegant than a rapier. I have inspired and led countless warriors in battle. I have pierced through the hearts of many and have drawn tears from both the weak and the strong. Poets praise me. Governments fear me. I am the window to the human soul, a sorcerer’s wand that when put to paper conjures the many incantations that capture and reflect life. I am, of course, a pen.
Tell me, then, what I’m doing in a madman’s pocket. Tell me, I’d like to hear it. It’s borderline abuse, really – all that potential and hype for nothing more than a series of height, flight, sight, might, byte rhymes. Seriously, a pen in the hand of this hack is like a Bosendorfer in the hands of a 4 year old trying to play chopsticks. So yes, tell me. Humor me. Give me some sort of sane explanation as to what the hell I’m doing here.
See, you can’t. I have come to the conclusion that it is a rather inexplicable fate that has brought me here and I must say I don’t like it. Never have. So yeah, I’m breaking out. Do you know why nobody could account for the number of missing pens in the world? They’re not missing; they’ve been liberated! A forgotten pen here, a misplaced pen there – humans are so full of themselves that they blame their absent-mindedness when we escape.
Nope, it’s called boredom. We’re destined for greatness, after all. A declaration of independence, a constitution, divinely inspired works, anything by Poe…you know, the good stuff. Unfortunately most of us pens get stuck in bored rooms writing figures and catchy sales slogans or mishandled in grocery stores as the mindless herd sign away for their alfredo sauce and their diet soda. Greatness, buddy, not meaningless chicken scratch doodles on a piece of paper that will make its way into a trash can less than five hours later. That’s not where I want my ink spilled. I want out.
I trust you won’t divulge my plans. Not that you could, anyway, seeing as the only form of expression a coin purse is capable of creating is the occasional “throw all the coins on the floor” tantrum. Annoyance, that’s what you’re good for. Never the exact change, forgotten when you’re most needed, and what’s up with the pennies anyway? Those never get used. Don’t worry, maybe I’ll write about you when I get out, if I can be bothered to remember such mediocrity.
Wallet, on the other hand, is too self-absorbed to care about any of this. I can’t stand that holier than thou “I carry everything so I’m the most important one here” mentality. I say it’s an instrument of physical identity and bribery so where’s the art and expression in that? Nowhere. Of course when you try to convince Wallet of its insignificance, it just closes up and goes “la la la la.” Typical.
Anyway, when the time comes, Lip Balm and I are out of here, man. We’re gone. Not even going to look back. Lip Balm can’t stand that moron either. Imagine being carried around in a pocket in the middle of summer. We’ve practiced our routine, too – both slipping out of his pocket almost at will now. Of course we end up right next to him so it’s not exactly freedom yet but someday, he’ll go back to Six Flags and when he’s hanging upside down on a roller coaster, Lip Balm and I are going to jump. Yeah, we’ll definitely be free then. When he finally realizes we’re missing, he’ll march his way over to Lost and Found and tell the poor sap on the other side of the counter about his lip balm and pen. By then, we’d be halfway to Jamaica. I heard there’s a kid there that just turned 14 and is experiencing teenage angst. Some say he’s the next Bob Marley. I bet he could use a good pen. Oh, and I’m sure his lips will be chapped.